As far as I could see, life demanded skills I didn't have.

All my integrity seemed to lie in saying No.

Are you crazy? It's a common phrase, I know. But it means something particular to me: the tunnels, the security screens, the plastic forks, the shimmering, ever-shifting borderline that like all boundaries beckons and asks to be crossed. I do not want to cross it again.

If I could have any job in the world I'd be a professional Cinderella.

Scar tissue has no character. It's not like skin. It doesn't show age or illness or pallor or tan. It has no pores, no hair, no wrinkles. It's like a slip cover. It shields and disguises what's beneath. That's why we grow it; we have something to hide.

Was everybody seeing this stuff and acting as though they weren't? Was insanity just a matter of dropping the act?

Tell me that you don’t take that blade and drag it across your skin and pray for the courage to press down.