Some people can seem perfect... everything about them can, on paper, be just right. Until you get to know them. Really know them. Then you find out, in the end, while they might be perfect to every one else, they just aren't right for you.

This is how many people become artists, musicians, writers, computer programmers, record-holding athletes, scientists... by spending time alone practicing what they love.

I felt as if the Milky Way, hovering above our heads like a celestial pitcher, had suddenly overturned, pouring suns and planets down my throat. Stars seemed to be shooting out of my finger and toes, the ends of my hair.

Writing is a workout, just like going for a run!

Not like this vision before us, who was shaking water out of his slightly overlong reddish-brown hair as he leaned over to lay down his board (revealing, as he did so, the fact that beneath his baggy swim trunks—so weighted down with water that they had sunk somewhat dangerously low on his hips—lurked what appeared to be an exceptionally well-formed gluteus maximus)

I wish I had taken Spanish instead of French in high school. I could eavesdrop on a lot more conversations on the subway if I knew Spanish.

It was only when they'd rounded the corner toward the Penguin that we finally sat up, Laughing semi-hysterically. "Oh my God, did you see her face?" Becca asked between guffaws. "'There's something in my hair!'" "That was fantastic, Crazytop," Jason said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "Best master plan yet.