“Hello toes," I say. They're good toes. I like that they're long and slender and not the slightest bit stubby. I wiggle them, ten unstubby waves that say, "And hello to you, Human Host!"Except they're toes. I'm talking to my toes. Maybe I'm not bored... maybe I'm lonely?”

“There will be all these fifty-year-old women wearing hot pants and squeezing themselves into pretzel shapes and then there will be me. Just reaching for my toes like they're China. 'Hello there! You're so far away, I can't get to you! Can you even hear me?”

“I'm lonely. Why do you think I had to learn to act so independent? I also get mad too quickly, and I hog the covers, and my second toe is longer than my big one. My hair has it's own zip code. Plus, I get certifiably crazy when I've got PMS. You don't love someone because they're perfect. You love them in spite of the fact that they're not.”

“I hog the covers, and my second toe is longer than my big one. My hair has its own zip code...You don't love someone because they're perfect...You love them in spite of the fact that they're not.”

“Upon your feet you have ten toes, they look just like PO-TA-TOES!”

“To say that I enjoyed writing... is like saying I enjoy having fingers and toes. It's difficult to imagine life without them.”