“In case you haven't noticed, I'm a lover not a fighter.”
“Not to sound, you know, like a dick," Jack said carefully. "But you just dragged us out of bed to show us Jane's messy room? That's not really an emergency Mae."
"She's not here!" Mae shouted, gesturing to the mess around her. "That's the emergency."
"Again, not to be a dick, but that's not really an emergency." Jack said.”
“You could kill me, Alice, he looked at me seriously. That's how much you mean to me. As foolish and masochistic as that makes me, you are so much to me that even if it destroys me to be with you, I'll be with you!”
“How did I look at you? I asked thickly. Like you had to, like I was a magnet you were pulled to. There was no choice, he said. And when you look at Jack, it's because when he's around, why would you want to look at anything else? You love him the way you could never love me.”
“Because you're here with me, Jack said. Any night that ends with that can't be that bad”
“I saw you first," Jack mumbled.
"You cannot use that as an argument," I rolled my eyes. "I'm not the last piece of pizza. I'm a perso.”
“Erin, I’d like to know you again. Can we do that?” He brushed the back of his knuckles down her cheek.”
“Seen from the air, the male mind must look rather like the canals of Europe, with ideas being towed along well-worn towpaths by heavy-footed dray horses. There is never any doubt that they will, despite wind and weather, reach their destinations by following a simple series of connected lines.
But the female mind, even in my limited experience, seems more of a vast and teeming swamp, but a swamp that knows in an instant whenever a stranger--even miles away--has so much as dipped a single toe into her waters. People who talk about this phenomenon, most of whom know nothing whatsoever about it, call it "woman's intuition.”
“Sheldon Kopp, the author and psychologist, wrote, “There are no great men. If you have a hero, look again: you have diminished yourself in some way.”
“choose too fast just to be done with it? I do that sometimes. I can’t help myself. I hate to shop. But are these shoes really that bad? Bad enough so the kids at school will laugh and say, “Nice shoes, Hatcher. Where’d you find them . . . in the trash?” Should I try on another pair? Should I wait to see what Fudge chooses and then . . . Wait a minute, I told myself. I can’t believe I’m thinking this way, as if my five-year-old brother knows more about cool than me. Since when is he the expert on cool? Since when is he the expert on anything? “Make”
“It was so typical. Whenever Blair did anything nice for someone else, she usually regretted it.
Which kind of explained why she was such a bitch most of the time.”
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