The tales we tell ourselves about ourselves makes us who we are.

Why do you even put up with me?' 'I'm not putting up with you,' he said, softly. 'I'm loving you.

I never understood the point of being sad when I could choose to be happy

I just don't see the point in beating myself up. I think it's more productive to concentrate on being a better person right now than punishing myself for who I was in the past.

Love may have the longest arms, but it can still fall short of an embrace.

Where's my syllabus to guide me through life?

This is my new hobby. I watch my life depart minute by minute. I anticipate the end of everything and anything -- a conversation, a class, track practice, darkness -- only to be left with more clock-watching to take its place. I'm continually waiting for something better that never comes. Maybe it would help if I knew what I wanted.