I grew up in a household where we didn't really talk about our feelings, and where the only reason you went to a doctor was because you'd accidentally cut off a limb with a chain saw.

Logically, I understand that it wasn't Edward's fault my family fell apart after he left. But when you're eleven years old, you don't give a flip about logic. You just really miss holding your big brother's hand.

I asked her sister for a cell number, at least, but something tells me that 401-GO2-HELL is out of service.

Maybe if God gives you a handicap, he makes sure you've got a few extra doses of humor to take the edge off.

My high school guidance counselor, Mrs. Inverholl, once had me take an aptitude test to figure out my future. The number one job recommendation for my set of skills was an air traffic accident investigator, of which there are fewer than fifty in the world. The number two job was a museum curator for Chinese-American studies. The number three job was a circus clown.

I used to have pink hair," I told Seven.
"I used to have a real job," he answered.
"What happened?"
He shrugged. "I dyed my hair pink. What happened to you?