You're beautiful, every part of you. I love your hair, the way it looks, the way it feels. I love touching it, smelling it. I love the way you wrinkle your nose when you laugh. It makes me laugh, too, every time. And I love watching you eat. Sometimes you can't shovel it in fast enough, but when you get interested in a conversation, you forget there's anything in front of you. God knows, I love making love with you. I can't even talk about that without wanting you. I love your pathetic attachment to those seniors. I love how hard you work.

He could deal with his guilt all by himself. Guilt didn't add up to love, an emotion she was done with forever.

You couldn't be satisfied with being an amateur asshole, could you, Jimbo! You had to go and turn pro on me!

When male authors write love stories, the heroine tends to end up dead.

You try spending six months sitting at somebody's bedside, waiting for them to die and then tell me that the happy-ending love story isn't one of God's good gifts.

When you've been around a snake long enough, you learn how to crawl in the dirt.

Try to live with a generous heart. Doing anything else is too hard.