A garter. You’re supposed to take it off and keep it as a memento. K-k-kinda like a trophy for going far sexually with a girl. It’s stupid, really. And kind of d-d-degrading if I think about it too m-m-much.” “I know what it is,” he says, amusement evident in his voice. “I just wanted to hear your explanation.

I'm the one who got hit by that car, not you,' I tell him. 'Don't act like you're the victim here. You made choices I didn't ask you to make. I'm not sure anyone asked you to make them.' I'm screaming the words, not caring that the entire world can probably hear me. 'You think I like limping everywhere I go? I don't. I'm the victim! Be honest with me! You didn't care about me enough to trust me. I gave you my heart, but it wasn't enough.

And for those of you who want to start any trouble, I have a zero tolerance policy. . . .

Stop focusing on the bad stuff because life is too damn short.

I don't want to end up like my mom. That's my biggest fear in life.

If you tiptoe into cold water, you're missing out on the rush of plunging in headfirst.

Just the fact that you need me to prove I love you is probably a clue it isn’t working