The handwriting was a girl’s. I mean, you can tell. That enchanted cursive.

I thought about the bigger picture of my life, and about the people—and particularly the guys—I would encounter during my lifetime. How would I ever know when that moment was right, when expectation met anticipation and formed … connection?

One of the failures of cellular communication is that tiredness often comes across as sadness.

Dumped doesn't even begin to describe it. If you're going to use a trash metaphor, incinerated is more like it.

She doesn't want the boy causing the distinction between "love" and "in love

I feel like you may be a special and kind person. And I would like to make it my business to know special and kind people. Especially if they are boys my age.

Perhaps it's not that I'm frigid-- it's that once I decide I like a guy, I turn into a raging idiot, unfit for public appearances.