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A stepmother is like a bullet you can't dig out. She fires true and she fires hot and she fires so quick that her metal hits your body before you even know there's a fight on.
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She’s an Italian flag in occupied territory, and I fall for her like Paris.
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Of late, she had felt coldness in herself, and though she feared it, she loved it too, for it made her strong.
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I will not let her speak because I love her, and when you love someone you do not make them tell war stories.
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All jobs are odd, or they would be games or naps or picnics.
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If she was in a teaching mood she wasn't in a hitting mood. Like sneezing and keeping your eyes open, Mrs. H couldn't do both at once.
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Temperament, you'll find, is highly dependent on time of day, weather, frequency of naps, and whether one has had enough to eat.
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But we had young turnips and mustard greens in our befuddled stomach that day, and these things make bravery.
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Firebirds are such frustating quarry. One minute it's all fiery tail feathers and red talons and the next, nothing but ash and a sore seat.
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She said you’d come and I swore to eat your heart.
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Some switches must be flipped, and some children cannot help turning off to on and on to off, just to see what will happen.
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Thing is, just because you make a body shiver don’t make it yours.
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Rich girls aren’t criminals, don’t you know? They’re just troubled, poor things.
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Monsters almost always are culture's way of working out their fears.
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But in the end, all wars are more or less the same. If you dig down through the layers of caramel corn and peanuts and choking, burning death, you’ll find the prize at the bottom and the prize is a question and the question is this: Which of us are people and which of us are meat?
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Do you understand Christ to be more like an ox (excuse us, three oxen) or more like a door?
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Decibel Jones sighed and shook his head. Today was fired. Today was well and truly sacked. Today could, in point of fact, fuck all the way off.
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Sweet as cherries, bright as berries, light of my moony sky.
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Sometimes I worry. Worrying is defined as obsessive examination of one’s own code.
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Your past’s a private matter, sweetheart. You just keep it locked up in a box where it can’t hurt anyone.
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Just because it's imaginary doesn't mean it isn't real.
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I thought: this is how you make a human being. A human being is beautiful and sick. A human being glitters and starves.
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If you have ever seen a falling star, you have seen a Changeling arriving.
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If one did not have at least a little luck, one would never survive childhood. But luck can be spent, like money; and lost, like a memory; and wasted, like a life.