It's okay if you're crazy," he said softly. "You don't even know-" "I don't have to know," he said. "I'm rooting for you.

Well,” she said. “I’m frustrated.” “Don’t make me angry-kiss you.” “Give me the laundry.” “Tempers rising, faces flushed … This is how it happens.

He pulled away to say he's sorry, and she shook her head no, because even though she really want him to be sorry, she wanted to kiss him more.

Eleanor was right. She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.

She carried herself like she was exactly the size everyone else wanted to be.

I dare you to call Ask-A-Nurse and tell them you feel a presence in your womb region.

And sometimes you held somebody’s hand just to prove that you were still alive, and that another human being was there to testify to that fact.