“Her voice was polished with a hint of a New England-boarding-school accent that shouted refinement over geographic locale. I was trying not to stare. She saw that and smiled a little. I don't want to sound like some kind of pervert because it wasn't like that. Femal beauty gets to me. I don't think I'm alone in that. It gets to me like a work of art gets to me. It gets to me like a Rembrandt or Michelangelo. It gets to me like night views of Paris or when the sun rises on the Grand Canyon or sets in the turquoise Arizona sky. My thoughts were not illicit. Ther were, I self-rationalized, rather artistic.”

“You make this sound like a chore for you, like a job. This...," he pressed his fingers to my heart, "it's about love for me--undying, unwavering, unrelenting love. A love that won't let me move on, it won't let me get over you. I don't want to focus on the sickness that could replace you in my heart. I don't want to think of what will happen if I stop fighting for you, for us. But, sometimes I feel like I'm alone in this fight.”

“I wanted him to think about me as much as I thought about him. I wanted him to miss me when I wasn't around, like I missed him. I wanted him to want me like he'd never wanted anyone else, the way that I wanted him. I wanted for him to never be able to get enough of me, as I seemed not to be able to get enough of him.”

“I feel like the world stopped. And I got off...and then it started spinning again, but too fast for me to hop back on. I feel like I'm still trying to get a...to get some kind of foothold on living”

“I get a kick out of being an outsider constantly. It allows me to be creative. I don't like anything in the mainstream and they don't like me.”

“Fine, I just wanted to feel like me again” “Babe, you were naked” “Yeah well it worked so get over it”