The locker at the end of her bed had no lock, and one of the hinges was busted. She opened it up. There was a thing in it. The thing might have been a sandwich at some point, or an animal, or a human hand...but what it was now was fuzzy and putrid. A minute later, Ginny was down the stairs, out the door, and gone.

Even though she had been warned, she tripped over the bike. She probably tripped because she'd been warned and was telling herself not to trip over the bike. She did that sometimes. It was often easier not to know what obstacles were in the way.

Proximity doesn't breed familiarity.

One person's crazy is another person's sane, I guess.

A woman who shaves or otherwise depilates her pubic curls has a profound interest in recreational sex.

I have no phobias. Phobias are irrational. My fears are rational and CAREFULLY CULTIVATED, like roses.

You could wear the same outfit every single day and no guy - who isn't gay - will notice.