What do you do when you finally hear everything you've always thought said aloud?

She said writting novels was like childbirth: if you truly remembered how awful it got, you'd never do it again.

Told you. Everything sounds better in the car wash.

Say what you will, but you’re never prepared for the surprise attack.

Like a word on a page that you’ve printed and read a million times, that suddenly looks strange or wrong, foreign. And you feel scared for a second, like you’ve lost something, even if you’re not sure what it is.

How ballsy it was to just assume you know, with one glance, the things another person could live without. As if it was the same for everyone, that simple.

When you have a kid, you sign on for the whole package: good, bad, everything in between. you can't just dip in and out, picking and choosing the parts you want and quitting when it's not perfect.