I turn my head so that he doesn't see my smile and secretly curse him for making me feel special.

I sat down and tried to write a story.'Ian MacArthur is a wonderful sweet fellow who wears glasses and peers out of them with delight.'That was the first sentence. The problem was that I just couldn't think of the next one. After cleaning my room three times, I decided to leave Ian alone for a while because I was starting to get mad at him.

Female Mercenary. This will be a companion on your Tour. She is usually tall, thin and wiry, silent, and neurotic. Sex scares her. This is because she either came from a nunnery or was raped as a child. Or both. Somehow this inspired her to become a mercenary and she is very good at her job. You can rely on her absolutely in a fight. She can usually kill two people at once while guarding your back in between. The rest of the time, she will irritate you with lots of punctilious weapons cleaning and a perpetual insistence that a proper watch be kept. Mostly, she will have no magic talents, but sometimes, in an emergency, she will come up with a gift or vision. You will end up grudgingly admiring her.

The innocent-sounding words “Yes, it’s close enough to walk” can easily lure the unsuspecting tourist into an exhausting day-long climb, requiring supplemental oxygen, crampons, and a pickax.

When boy likes you, you say no thank you. You don't kick him on the ground.

A celebrity farts, and everyone endures, but the unpopular will be thrased to death.

Percy looked at his friends. “I’m getting tired of this guy’s shirt.

The roof was torn off the gym. God's way of telling the jocks that they'd better remember who's really charge.

Out of love for mankind, and out of despair at my embarrassing situation, seeing that I had accomplished nothing and was unable to make anything easier than it had already been made, and moved by a genuine interest in those who make everything easy, I conceived it as my task to create difficulties everywhere.

Jamie came back to the apartment one night to find her spreading a viscous fluid onto a canvas. It was threaded wtih blood. 'Good God,' he said. 'What the hell is that?' Pia didn't bother to look up but continued to knead the clear slime across the canvas. 'It's my new piece.' 'But what is it?' He kept pointing. He'd never seen something so disgusting in his life. And her hands were completely in it. 'It's Jodie's placenta. She gave it to me. I'm going to tack it up and let it dry on this canvas. Then I'm gonna glue-gun pictures of dead fetuses onto Lucite and make them the centerpeice.' 'Uh huh.' She raised her sticky hands to him. 'It's about women, you know? The way that the world opresses them, all right? And it's about babies, and . . . I don't know . . . I just got the placenta today.' 'Wow, that's wow . . . That's . . .' No words for this. He scratched his chin as she spread her hands in a concentric motion across the canvas. 'So, do you really think anyone's gonna want to put that up on their wall when it's done?' he asked. She scowled, displeased.