There are a lot of truths in this world. When it rains it pours. It's always darkest before the dawn. He who smelt it dealt it.

All of his life had been about making sure I kept mine.

Lies were like acid, corrosive: They could dissolve trust in a heartbeat.

Why is it always the world? Why is it never just half a block? Or Jersey? You know, something we could live without?

Home is where the heart is or where you bury the ones you want to eat later.

Every inner touch, every one of its fingerprints on my brain, burned like acid. It shredded the walls of my soul like tissue paper, it clawed its way into my very center, I couldn’t tell anymore where it began and I ended. It poured into me like a river into the sea, mixing, melding, until we were one. One. For better or worse. Until death do us part.

Pick up your clothes. I am not your maid. How do I know this? A maid cannot kill you with a tube sock. I can.