Some of the prettiest faces hide the meanest hearts, and smooth talk is no substitute for good character. The only way to judge a person is by his deeds.
That’s a lot of tripping, Romeo. You need to see a doctor for your balance problem.
Be ready to tell me everything you want me to do to you in bed.
To not have to talk about what I want.
I’m about to turn you from a rooster to a hen, you preening little prick.
Trust me, if murder was legal, I’d have killed dozens of people by now.
Racism isn’t about where you were born. It’s about how small your heart is.
Anyone that insults my country, my intelligence, my feminist ideals, all women in general, and a favorite childhood food, and refers to both himself and me in the third person in one sentence automatically gets an honorary spot on my Hate With Every Fiber of My Being For All Time list.
Faith is being sure of what we hope for, and certain of what we do not see.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
She was my religion. My north and south, my heaven and earth, the axis of rightness around which everything had suddenly aligned. For the first time in mi life, all my polarized parts worked as one, humming happily along in harmony with the univers, finally understanding their place.
Goddamn bossy men. I should start a women’s group for survivors of alpha males. There are probably millions of us worldwide, nursing bruised hopes, hearts, and uteruses.
Dressed in a black pair of men’s boxer shorts rolled over at the waist so they didn’t sag down her legs and a white men’s undershirt she must have found in one of the dresser drawers, with her choppy blue hair sticking up in every direction and her wild, glittering eyes, she looked like an insane, cross-dressing pixie.
You never know what it’s like to be someone else until you’ve lived what he’s lived.
Rocky beginnings are par for the course for every great romance.
The noise I made when I collided with his chest was something so unladylike my mama would’ve pitched a hissy fit if she’d heard it. It was part grunt, part groan, and part something that sounded like it shot out of my butthole on a hot burst of air, excuse my French.
I’m in danger here. Serious, imminent danger of being charmed senseless by a handsome artist who arouses in me the duelling urges to run away screaming or strip naked and fling myself onto his torso and cling there like a crab.
Because even though it might burn the whole world to the ground, true love can never die.
Carbs are proof that God loves us, don’t you think?
We’re all dying, baby. It’s just a matter of when.