Think: who has vans, huh? Soccer moms and serial killers.
It isn’t that we do what we want. It’s that we’re allowed to want at all.
I am for hockey. I find I should like to hit something with a stick. -Gemma Doyle Trilogy.
Scoring well on tests is the sort of happy thing that gets the school district the greenbacks they crave. Understanding and appreciating the material are secondary.
You’ve been assigned an identity since birth. Then you spend the rest of your life walking around in it to see if it really fits. You try on all these different selves and abandon just as many. But really it’s about dismantling all that false armor, getting down to what’s real. -Going Bovine.
Prepared to fly, even if she has to loose her legs to do it.
It occurs to me that cricket is not the true sport in London – gossip is.
No one can steal our dream.
Thou shalt not steal. I seem to recall that being one of God’s I’d rather you didn’t lest I have to smite you into ash commandments.
My misery is reaching epidemic proportions.
Sheep. I’m stuck in a boarding school filled with sheep.
The desperation meeting the silence with its unmasked wish.
Truth casts a spell of its own.
What do you feel? I’ve never been asked this question once. None of us has. We aren’t supposed to feel. We’re British.
They swoon over Tom, who preens for them, bowing, which sets them to blushing and giggling. God help us all.
I am starting a collection of only right-hand gloves. It’s ever so bourgeois to have two.
There were few things worse than being ordinary, in Evie’s opinion. Ordinary was for suckers.
But sons are a different matter to a man. More a duty than an indulgence.
Does my new feminism make me look fat?
Agent Jones held Sinjin’s face in his hands. “I’m going to make balloon animals. People need balloon animals.” “How right you are, strange delusional man,” Sinjin said.