I keep thinking about a tale my nurse used to read to me about a bird whose wings are pinned to the ground. In the end, when he finally frees himself, he flies so high he becomes a star. My nurse said the story was about how we all have something that keeps us down.

You're better than seven years of food. You're better than windows. You're even better than the sky.

I'm not hopeless, that's the problem. I'm too hopeful, if anything ... I'm so thick-headed it's taken me this long to give up on men, but I can't give up completely, you know? So I ... I channel all my hope into an idea, to someone who can't reject me because he isn't real!

There's nothing more aggravating in the world than the midnight sniffling of the person you've decided to hate.

Right now I'd like all my troubles to stand in front of me in a straight line, and one by one I'd give each a black eye.

But the hoping, that's what really hurts.

...all things speak, in their way, don't they?