“Who wants to be a twenty-five-year-old fat, moody, moon-faced, blind, brittle-boned diabetic with no immune system if there is any other possible way to deal with the situation? I was single. Can't you just see that match.com ad? Bloated, anemic, moody, bald, pale female seeks--anyone. Anyone!”

“The man is moody as hell.”“I am not moody—”“Yeah, bro.” Kenji puts his utensils down. “You are moody. It’s always ‘Shut up, Kenji.’ ‘Go to sleep, Kenji.’ ‘No one wants to see you naked, Kenji.’ When I know for a fact that there are thousands of people who would love to see me naked—”

“If you're fighting moodiness and depression you don't want to hang around a bunch of other moody and depressed people.”

“My bones are brittle, my heart weak and erratic, my esophagus and stomach riddled with ulcers, my reproductive system shot, my immune system useless... I'm not going to have a happy ending.”

“You gonna deal with Mr. Hot and Moody?""Not sure. I may just pull out my e-reader."He nodded. "Probably safer for your sanity.”

“Olivia was moody. Moody wasn't a word with which she was very familiar, but if it meant that her moods swung back and forth for no reason at all, and that she felt crabby and wanted to be alone more often than she felt content and friendly, and that she was often tempted to slam her bedroom door - preferably in someone's face - well, then, moody described perfectly the way she'd been feeling lately.”