Quotes from Laurie Faria Stolarz

In other words, my pot doesn't work? It doesn't have a pulse, he says. I have a pulse. Kimmie offers her wrist. Wanna check?

In writing, as in life, always be true to your character.

Love isn't rational, it's instinctive

Aww, you know my verbal stingers are only poisoned with love

I wonder if I'm going crazy. I think I read somewhere - or was it something I learned in psychology class? - that people often make up their own reality as a means of coping with what their brains can't possible handle. The idea comforts me, because while no one else out there seems to be trying to protect or save me, at least maybe my brain in.

People told me that if I ignored you, if I pretended that you didn't bother me, you'd eventually give up and move on to the next victim. So why didn't that ever happen?

in regards to Chad's Nifty Over Fifty Moustache and Beard Darkener] "'Dark Bravado Blonde, Number 143.' The name alone makes my loins all aquiver." --Amber

Wait," Wes says. "Are you to imply that our dear Chameleon is once again having premonitions by way of pottery?" "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't call me reptilian names," I say. "Would you prefer it if I called you a freak?

If tearing someone's acrylic nails off, glue and all, and cramming them down her throat didn't look so unattractive, I would probably do just that to Drea right now.

rainbows and starfish.

But I'm not letting you off so easily. Did you hear something that I should know about?" "No," I say, suddenly feeling more self-conscious than I ever thought possible. "So, then, is this just an excuse you've devised to call me? Because, trust me when I say that you need no excuses. I love hearing from you.

Did you and dad eat the raw-violi I left in the fridge?" "Sort of. I mean, we considered eating it. It made its way onto the table. But we ended up having the rest of the rawkin' raw-sagna instead. (Rawkin' raw-sagna: a sorry excuse for a real lasagna made with uncooked squash slices, tomatoes, and cashew paste, and served on—what else?—Elvis dinner plates). I don't have the heart to tell her that dad chucked both dinners and ordered us a pizza.

In my hefty elf sack, your nightmares now keep. Better think twice before falling asleep - The Nightmare Elf

It's just so easy popping a pill—the quickest route to Sleepy Land. And now I won't be able to.

My mother grimaces, clearly on to my BS. She's what you'd call a health fanatic times one hundred, from the raw-ful cuisine she makes us eat to her handmade sanitary napkins (no joke: the woman actually uses kitchen sponges), and so, pepperoni-and-cheese-laden pizza ranks right up there with what fur coats are to PETA.

He'd wanted to accompany her, but both of them knew it'd be smarter for him to stay home. In other words, neither of them trusts me. And who can really blame them? The last time they both went away together, a stalker broke into our house, our basement turned into a scene out of Fright Night , and I nearly gave my boyfriend a concussion.

Ever since what happened last fall, my dad has made a feeble though still earnest attempt at safeguarding our place. He's put stickers on all the windows and poked yard signs into the lawn, both of which claim that we have a security system (we don't). He's also installed motion-detector lights that go on and off pretty much whenever they feel like it.

Will you call me first thing tomorrow?" "I must say, if I knew all this creepy stuff was going to elicit this much attention from you, I'd have gotten myself harassed weeks ago." "Adam, I'm serious.

What about Melissa?" I ask. "She's angry at you for ending things with her. Maybe this is her way of teaching you a lesson." "A total possibility. I'm definitely sweet and studly enough to drive a girl literally insane, wouldn't you say?" He flexes his biceps to be funny. "Can we please try to be serious here?

Better wash up," mom says. "We'll be eating in a few minutes." I glance toward her mixing bowl, in which she's blending something resembling Cat Chow. Dad grimaces at the sight of it. "What do you say, Camelia?" he says. "Maybe after dinner and I can head over to Flick-tastic to rent a couple videos?" Translation: Let's save ourselves from this swill by hitting the drive-through of Taco Bell.

What are you doing here?" I ask, stepping out of the car. "Waiting for you." He closes the car door behind me. "I called you earlier and your mom said you'd be home around nine. You're two minutes early." "Should I go away and come back?" "What do you think?" he asks, encircling my waist with his arms.

But Spencer is here, after all. He stands at the back, just outside his office. "What happened?" he asks. My eyes burn from the pelting rain and the salt of my tears. "It's raining," I say, as if it weren't completely obvious. "And you decided to lay out in it?

Down Clara fell, because she made a wish at the magical water well.

It probably doesn't mean anything.