Quotes from Meg Cabot

How do I know Michael hasn't met some other girl? Some Floridian girl, with long,sun-streaked hair, and a tan,and breasts? Who has access to the Internet and isn't cooped up in a palace with her crazy grandma,a homeless,Speedo-wearing prince and a freakish,hairless miniature poodle?

It's like I've struck a blow for dweebs everywhere, or something.

God made us sisters, but life made us friends.

Oh, for God's sake , I thought. Why me? I mean, really. Like my life's not complicated enough. Now I have to play Obi Wan Kenobi to this kid's Anakin Skywalker? It so isn't fair. When was I ever going to get the chance to be a normal teenage girl, to do the things normal teenage girls like to do, like go to parties and hang out at the beach, and um, what else? Oh, yeah, date. A date, with the boy I actually like, would be nice. But do I get dates? Oh, no. What do I get instead? Ghosts.

Read and write all the time. Never stop sending out your stuff. If you're constantly writing and sending stuff out, eventually someone will bite.

I was born to make people feel good when everything around them seemed just awful. Which, if you think about it, is what all good parents – and café owners – are meant to do.

Thank God Grandmère wasn't there. . . . he'd gone off in search of more cigarettes, and to have her sidecar refreshed.

Be like Grace: Wear large, dark glasses and a filmy scarf over your hair next time you go out in public. People will totally wonder who the mysterious beauty is, standing in line behind them at Blockbuster.

Could there be three other words in the English language more effective at striking terror deep within the heart than Got a minute?

But maybe kissing was enough. Maybe kissing was the only thing that mattered, anyway. Maybe kissing could overcome the whole vampire/basketball thing.

Oh, Grandmère," I said in English. "I don't want to be a princess. I just want to be me, Mia.

I stared at the screen, aware that my heart rate had sped up. Sped up? I was so angry I wanted to ram my fist into the monitor, as if by doing so I could somehow ram it into Paul Slater's rock hard abs. -Suze Simon

max the Ackermans family dog and brad had alot in common but max was defintely smarter

Then she fussed around my room, straightening it up (although since acquiring a roommate of the hot Latino male persuasion, I have become quite conscientious about keeping my room in a fairly neat condition. I mean, I don't exactly want Jesse seeing any of my stray bras lying around. And really, he was the one who was always messing things up, leaving these enormous piles of books and open CD cases everywhere. And then of course there was Spike).

The wonderful, amazing, but occasionally distasteful and sometimes even horrifying world where most people are incredibly decent and well meaning, but occasionally you do encounter someone who is going to try to use you, or even abuse you, and when that happens, there isn't always going to be a bodyguard--or parent--around to rescue you.

Because when it comes to our men, we Renaldo women don't mess around. We play for keeps. And we have the battle scars to prove it.

I'll never walk again, will I? I asked, looking woefully down at my ravaged feet. You will, Jesse said. Just not for a day or two. Those burns look very painful. They'll need butter. Butter? I wrinkled my nose. The best treatment for burns like those is butter, Jesse said. Uh, I said. Maybe back in 1850. Now we tend to rely on the healing power of Neosporin. There's a tube of it in my medicine cabinet behind you.

Men enjoy the hunt, you see, and once their quarry has been taken, they tend to lose all interest.

Art." Dauntra nodded. "Sure. I can't believe a guy gets paid to show off his goods, and people call it art.

You don't have to shout, sweetie. I can read you just fine in lower-case letters.

I understand you love him and UR down/ But that don't mean you gotta be his clown.

And yeah, okay, the majority of guys I have met since moving to California have turned out either to have psychopathic killers stalking them, or were actually psychopathic killers themselves. But that's really not a very good excuse for falling in love with a ghost. It really isn't.

Right sensation... wrong guy.

Lots of people go through life not having the slightest idea what names to put in the blanks on their "Who Am I?" work sheets, and they aren't bothered in the least by it.