I get about five memoirs per week in my mailbox, and few of them inspire anything but a desire to pick up the channel changer.

I don't have a copy of my books, and the degree to which I never read them is profound. I never look.

Even the best of us are at least part-time bastards.

Ten years, she's dead, and I still find myself some mornings reaching for the phone to call her. She could no more be gone than gravity or the moon.

When you do try to picture the boys who do ask you out, they're absolutely featureless, like old carvings eroded by centuries of rain and wind.

He never gave up on me, I only stopped being matriculated.

The shreiking fight or the out-of-character insult endures forever, while the daily sweetness dissolves like sugar in water.