Nothing helps a broken heart like having someone wonderful give you theirs.

Vintage. That was what the used car sales automaton had called the little white car. Three hours later, she learned that vintage meant death trap.

Part of me aches to touch her now that she's so close. But the other part, the logical part, wants to coast myself in Teflon, because I know that her being here, no matter what her reasons, is going to seriously fuck with my world.

Sleep is not on good terms with broken hearts. It will have nothing to do with them.

I have wandered far to find love, I have found love but it didn't go far, I have broken a few hearts, I had mine broken too by someone.

As the sweaty, alcohol fuming bodies press in on me from all directions I decide that my ideal of a good time is reading a good novel, alone