But who has time to write memoirs? I’m still living my memoirs.

I swear I could write a book about all the things no one has ever thanked me for.

Good enough is good enough. Perfect will make you a big fat mess every time.

Maybe people are more like the earth than we know. Maybe they have fault lines that sooner or later are going to split open under pressure.

I value humor, kindness, and the ability to tell a good story far more than money, status, or the kind of car someone drives.

Can you reclaim that free-girl smile, or is it like virginity- once you loose it, that's it?

I want to lay up like that, to float unstructured, without ambition or anxiety. I want to inhabit my life like a porch.