That's what all love comes down to, doesn't it? We help others only as much as they let us.

I'm in crisis. I'm about to bump with a five-foot chino-chicano.

Most of my friends from Columbia are going on to get advanced degrees. And why not? A Ph.D. is the new M.A., a master's is the new bachelor's, a B.A. is the new high school diploma, and a high school diploma is the new smiley-face sticker on your first-grade spelling test.

I thought Marcus was going to be in my life forever. Then I thought I was wrong. Now he’s back. But this time I know what’s certain: Marcus will be gone again, and back again and again and again because nothing is permanent. Especially people. Strangers become friends. Friends become lovers. Lovers become strangers. Strangers become friends once more, and over and over. Tomorrow, next week, fifty years from now, I know I’ll get another one-word postcard from Marcus, because this one doesn’t have a period signifying the end of the sentence. Or the end of anything at all.

Where's my syllabus to guide me through life?

Girls will get together just to get together. Guys need an activity as an excuse. Otherwise it’s too homo for them to handle.

He always loved her because of, not in sprite of, her flaws.