What matters is the face you show the world, not the quaking mess behind it.

My pulse whooshed in my ears so fast I could barely hear myself speak. “I only have—” “Two days.” He squeezed my hand. “So what? You can spend them feeling sorry for yourself, or you can let me help make them the best two days of your life, and my afterlife. So what’s it gonna be?” I stared into his eyes, like I’d never seen him before. And I hadn’t—not like this. But he’d obviously seen me, better than anyone else ever had. “Well?” Tod watched me, his hand still warm in mine. In answer, I leaned forward and kissed him again.

So you’re saying the afterlife is hard on the libido? FYI, that’s probably not a good bullet point for your recruiting brochure.

The worst memories stick with us, while the nice ones always seem to slip through our fingers.

I've seen this episode. This is the one where Sylvester eats Tweety.

It's suspiciously quiet in here, and there's a Tod shaped dent in the bean bag. For the sake of both my sanity and my temper, I'm going to pretend I can't tell that you're in his lap, so could you pretend that this is still my house and you are still my daughter, and I'm within my parental rights to kick your boyfriend out after 11:00 p.m.?

I have choices," I insisted, refusing to break eye contact. "We both do. I may have to make mine carefully, and make a few compromises along the way, but I have a choice. I choose you.