“What colour was her scythe?""Sadly, I wasn't able to take the time to appreciate its subtle hues as it tore through my skin.”

“She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.”

“Oh my God, this can't be happening!" I cried."What?""Mopeds? Those are the wheels Pete gives us? I knew he was pissed off at me! It was all that time I spent in the hospital wasn't it? Or was it the wrecks? But I only tore up one car last time! And that wasn't my fault!”

“... and her voice cut through the noise like a scythe through a poodle.”

“She wasn't bitter. She was sad, though. But it was a hopeful kind of sad. The kind of sad that just takes time. ”

“When I was in sixth grade, my mom bought me all these books about puberty and adolescence, so I would appreciate what a ‘beautiful’ and ‘natural’ and ‘miraculous’ transformation I was going through. Crap. That’s what it is. She complains all the time about her hair turning gray and her butt sagging and her skin winkling, but I’m supposed to be grateful for a face full of zits, hair in embarrassing places, and feet that grow an inch a night. Utter crap.”