“I stood on the street, staring up at the most normal-looking house in the world. My house. I'd lived there my entire life. It was home. It was safe.It was haunted.The only other explanation was that I was demented. I couldn't say which I was rooting for.”

“I couldn't bring this sorrow home. Couldn't tell my wife. Wouldn't tell my children. As my friend Edward Dee says, we live in the worst twenty minutes of someone else's life. So I leave it behind . . . where it happened . . . where it belongs . . . not in my house.”

“That was the day my whole world went black. Air looked black. Sun looked black. I laid up in bed and stared at the black walls of my house….Took three months before I even looked out the window, see the world still there. I was surprised to see the world didn’t stop.”

“I couldn't imagine it, living a pristine life in this big Georgian house and everything. It seemed heinous. So I left him. I thought I'd go mad, if I stayed.”

“I want a one-bedroom house with cup holders. I want to live in my car, and make the road my home.”

“He sat on the edge of my bed. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at my toenails. I curled them under instinctively and immediately was worried that I'd messed up my painting job. I let them uncurl. Only one was marred. I used my thumb to rub most of the polish off of it and then I stared at my foot, which suddenly looked so vulnerable and imperfect with the one toe ringed in hot pink polish but bare on the inside of the nail. Like I'd started but had forgotten to finish being beautiful.”