I don't know how it happened, and I don't know why, but this-- what she and I have-- it's solid. You don't need to worry about her. I'd rather cut off my own arms than hurt a single purple hair on her head. I'll look after her.

How is it that you make me want so many things I had sworn I could do without?

Patience of a saint. The mind of a sinner.

If it swims, it's edible.

This week we are making edible snowmen.

What a strange world this was, that I could come here to lose everything about myself, and instead lose everything but me. It was possible that I’d thrown one too many Molotov cocktails over God’s fence. It would be, after all, a divinely ironic punishment to watch me learn to care and then destroy the things I cared about.