I grabbed another. Aerosmith. Nope, can’t throw classic Aerosmith. I snatched a copy of the Thompson Twins’ greatest hits and chucked it at him.

Marc/Faythe/Jace love triangle moment: "This isn't about you...." "Well, it should be!" he shouted, and I flinched. "Everything I do is about you, and I want the reverse to be true, too." I wiped more tears, my throat aching with words that would only make this worse. "What, you need a reminder? That's what he was doing, right? And now you smell like him. You probably taste like him. You should taste like me..." He was on me before I could even catch my breath.

"You already said that," Sabine said, folding the wrapper back from her burger. "You said it a lot, actually. Which supports my theory that apologies are basically pointless. They don't fix anything, right? That's why I rarely bother."

Whatever your weakness, there’s a hellion to exploit it.

His name's Nash." Aunt Val took a butter knife from the silverware drawer. "What year is he?" I groaned inwardly. "Senior." ...here we go ... Her smile was a little too enthusiastic. "Well that's wonderful!" Of course, what she really meant was "Rise from the shadows, social leper, and walk in the bright light of acceptance!

Screw this. He’d blown his shot at nice-and-easy, which only left quick-and-brutal—my favorite way to play.

From adult diapers to bedpans? Move over, Elvis, I’m the afterlife of the party!