It's not the length of the word; it's how well you use it!

If I love you more than you love me, I’m as good as dead. Yet I can’t make myself take it back. I can’t just walk away from you, because every time you pass by me without smiling, without touching my hand, or at least making eye contact, it feels like I’m dying inside.

She watched me with a creepy sort of detached curiosity, as if I were a bug crawling across the sidewalk in front of her. I wondered briefly if she was the ant stomper type.

There's pressure, but that's true no matter who you are or what you do.

Behind me, Marc made a soft whistling sound, clearly impressed. “That’s not standard procedure,” he said, his tone entirely too reasonable as he leaned over the stray’s body to open the back passenger-side door. “Yeah, well, I’m not your standard enforcer.

But my hands are in the right place." "Heart," I corrected. "Your heart's in the right place." "Yeah, but my hands are in an even better place." And so they were.

Sorry, but the whole walking corpse epiphany kind of threw me off my game.