Quote

This must be part of Mother Nature's master plan—making these boys so irresistibly cute, in such a naughty way, that the purity of their intentions becomes irrelevant.

Rachel Cohn

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Rachel Cohn
Age: 55
Born: 1968
Born: December 14
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Silver Spring
Maryland
Part
Plan
Irresistibly
Must
Masters
Naughty
Way
Plans
Intentions
Boys
Irrelevant
Becomes
Cute
Making
Purity
Mother
Intention
Nature
Master

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We all just took the bookstore at its word, because if you couldn't trust a bookstore, what could you trust?
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I am a classic 'Star Trek' fanatic.
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I particularly loved the adjective bookish, which I found other people used about as often as ramrod or chum or teetotaler.
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I am stronger than words and I am bigger than the box I'm in, and then I see her in the crowd and I fall apart -I am listening and I am listening because what I'm playing isn't something I'm thinking about, it's something I'm feeling all over.
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Dumped doesn't even begin to describe it. If you're going to use a trash metaphor, incinerated is more like it.
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It's bullshit to think of friendship and romance as being different. They're not. They're just variations of the same love. Variations of the same desire to be close.
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But she's not, and I am left to wonder on my own: How does this work, the getting to know a new guy without revealing too much desperation for his undivided attention?
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What's better, I wonder - to be a toy for the humans, or to control your own destiny , even if the only way to do so is suicide?
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Books. I'd probably spend all my time alone and lost in books if I could. It's easier that way.
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He's not my step brother technically, so I think it's okay that I kissed him once.
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I'm liking that I can throw any kind of sentence at her without worrying it's too out there.
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Perhaps it's not that I'm frigid-- it's that once I decide I like a guy, I turn into a raging idiot, unfit for public appearances.
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Everyone on this island wants something kept quiet. I want to roar
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With what you were talking about before. The world being broken. Maybe it isn't that we're supposed to find the pieces and put them back together. Maybe we're the pieces. Nick says. Maybe, Nick says, what we're supposed to do is come together. That's how we stop the breaking.
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Somewhere between a friend and acquaintance—a frequaintance, as it were.
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So much is happening and yet nothing at all.
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The desert adapts. The people adapt. Live. Die. Struggle. Suffer. Create. The people in the real world beyond Demesne's ring are not all manufactured perfection. They deal.
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Well what's in your Amazonian hope chest?
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Better to end this dream before it becomes a nightmare.
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She told me if I clean all the ashes out of the grate, then I’ll be able to help my sisters get ready for the bal.” “It’s Christmas, Dashiel. Can’t you give that atitude a rest?” “Merry Christmas, Dad. And thanks for the presents.” “What presents?” “I’m sorry—those were all from Mom, weren’t they?
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