I looked up from my paper and tried to remember her name. I was drawing a blank. That’s what happens when I doodle in invisible ink.
I feel like a crumpled up piece of paper that has something really important written on it. But no one will ever know what that is because all they see is something that's been discarded.
Our world will not die as the result of the bomb, as the papers say, it will die of laughter, of banality, or making a joke of everything, and a lousy joke at that.
The word love has always tasted like the scent of fresh ink and soft paper to me. Like a newly written poem.
Even now, Dickon was upstairs, writing sonnets to his new love, while back at Seadown House, Marianne was writing 'Ella' on scraps of paper and then burning them.
What to do with life? Get out of bed, Derek. That’s what you do. You get out of bed, and you get yourself a cup of fucking coffee. That’s all you can do.
What is perfect, anyway? The absence of perfection and the existence of human nature in place of something we want to do or we don’t want to do, is an excuse, not an exoneration.
I want to tell her that the pleasure for me wasn't planning or doing or leaving; the pleasure was in seeing our strings cross and separate and then come back together.
Your party kicked so much ass!Even though you suck so much! It's like, instead of blood, your heart pumps liquid suck! But thanks for the beer!
humans lack good mirrors. It's so hard for anyone to show us how we look, and so hard for us to show anyone how we feel
Margo always loved mysteries. And in everything that came afterward, I could never stop thinking that maybe she loved mysteries so much that she became one.
I mean, we're ninjas." "Well maybe a ninja," I said "You're just a really loud, awkward ninja," Margo said, "but we are both ninjas.
High school is neither a democracy nor a dictatorship - nor, contrary to popular belief, an anarchic state. High school is a divine-right monarchy.
And I wanted to tell her that the pleasure for me wasn't planning or doing or leaving; the pleasure was in seeing our strings cross and separate and then come back together.
I don't believe in prom,' I reminded her as she rounded a corner. I expertly angled my raisin bran to accomodate the g-forces. I'd done this before.
That poem is so damned long. You'd think old Walt could have taken a line or two to tell us how to unscrew the door from its jamb.
As we walked, I kept taking glances at her through the crowd, quick snapshots: a photographic series entitled Perfection Stands Still While Mortals Walk Past.
It's like she thinks my job is to please her, and that should be my dearest wish, and when I don't please her - I get shut out.
The humans lack good mirrors. It's so hard for anyone to show us how we look, and so hard for us to show them how we feel.
I wrote a thesis on love, and I wrote it in lipstick. Of course, I also got blood on the paper, because the lipstick was still attached to her cheating lips.
I’m not rich in paper money, I’m rich in packets of sugar. Actually, I’m richer, because at least the packets of sugar have some real value.
