Quotes from Jordan Castillo Price

Self-esteem. That's one of those catch-all terms that means nothing at all, but the mere mention of it leaves all the socially conscious liberal types nodding sagely and scratching their chins.

I looked at my spices again. Salt for protection, cinnamon to enhance psychic ability, and pepper to drive away evil. I figured I should start with the cinnamon. My first impulse was to snort it.

I'll be fast. I can make you come in two minutes." "I can do that myself. I never get to see you anymore- I'd rather talk to you" That had to be the most romantic things anyone had ever said to me, and I went all gooshy inside.

We stick together from now on." He spoke quietly, but he stared me right in the eye as he said it. Be still, my beating heart.

Jacob cut his gaze to me. I wasn't quiet sure how to convey, /I know we hate him, but based on the circumstances, it was the most logical thing to do/, with a nonverbal signal. I widened my eyes a little.

Sometimes the only place you find help is the last place you look.

Blakewood had a collection of miniature furniture with Scotty dogs painted on it, arranged on a semicircular shelf int he corner. Yeah. He was queer.

The perfect quote sprang to mind, but I resisted saying it under my breath, since Jonathan would hear. I couldn't even mouth the words, since for all I knew, he'd hear my lips moving. So I conjured up a vision of the Tin Man and let him say it for me in my head. "Now I know I've got a heart. I can feel it breaking.

I put them near the cellar door in case you want to store them down there." "Yeah. I, uh... I'm not big on going down into this basement." "But you said this place only had one ghost in it, and she left." I had. But I never claimed that ,y loathing of basements was entirely rational. "I had a bizarre fabric softener incident once," I told her. "It scarred me for life.

Eventually Young Vic would have ditched me for someone with a bunch of piercings and an edgy record collection, if I didn't take off with a pseudo-intellectual political activist first.

I smelled the cinnamon, and I imagined myself full of white light. I think I felt something. Something more than the desire for a piece of toast—though that was there, too.

Although Ryan hardly knew the person whose breath was playing over his cheek any better than he had mere seconds before, the simple exchange of names—or initials—had raised the bar for the encounter from anonymously seedy to merely impulsive. He'd always admired impulsiveness, though he'd never successfully cultivated the tendency in himself. Impulsive people seemed to get what they wanted. And if not, they looked like they had a lot of fun trying.

knowing often felt preferable to not knowing. It provided the illusion of control.

I'd gone my whole life with people expecting things I didn't seem capable of giving, so why should now be any different?

Jacob slid down my body and knelt in front of me. The two of us were wedged into the narrow lane between the and the dresser. He took the front button of my shirt into his mouth. I heard a snap. He spat, and a button pinged to the floor. He was nuts. He'd scammed the quarterly mental health exam and was certifiably insane. Not that that's ever stopped me from sleeping with anyone.

Jacob went to the sink and held his hands under the tap. He splashed cold water on his face and formed another ab-flashing maneuver that would bring every card-carrying queer to his knees.

He was nuts. He'd scammed the quarterly mental health exam and was certifiably insane. Not that that's ever stopped me from sleeping with anyone.

The news was its usual discouraging self—people in Chicago can't help but shoot at each other, and we only hear about the ones who didn't miss.

That was so not fair. My life was perfectly fine until suddenly I had this live-in boyfriend who wanted to interact with me, and I realized that I was almost always high.

The kitchen guy wheeled out the tray of lunches. The salmon looked too fancy for institutional food, more at par with something Jacob would have cooked up at home as a way of saying, I'm sorry I stood you up at that party where all my friends were flexing so hard you could barely fit in the room with their delts.

I was surprised to see Patrick waving vigorously at me from the corner. "Cashing in my rain check!" Huh. I didn't think people actually did that. Maybe "rain check" wasn't actually shorthand for "I prefer not to spend any time with you, ever.

If life's taught me anything, it's that you might as well eat your dessert first, 'cos the ceiling might fall in before you're even done with the salad.

I took a long, warm swallow, and felt everything surge down toward that heroin mouth of his, and I wondered if maybe I could trust that my luck had finally changed—that I'd gone through purgatory and come out the other side, battered and bruised but maybe a little bit wiser—and now I had me a little slice of heaven.

Back when I was a two-handed bastard, I made the sheep of the population nervous by skulking around in my badass facial hardware and projecting the fact that I didn't give a shit.