Fiction is just that-fiction. Yes, it is serious business, but it should also be taken for face value. It’s entertainment. It’s escapism. It’s 365 pages of relaxation.

I was about to say that we all hurt the ones we love. That we can’t help it and that for some reason, we’re just defective like that. Maybe because those we love most bring out the very best and the worst in us, and in some twisted way, we resist that magic.

Love couldn’t be moved by circumstance, poor choices, or even blatant lies-skewed and damaged, yes, but the heart couldn’t deny what it wanted most once the desire was planted. Whether in bliss or affliction, love owned you all the same.

Let me tell you something, honey. Fifty percent of life is others trying to push their own agenda on you – their belief system, their views, their convictions. The other fifty percent is you deciding whether or not you’re going to let them. Or if you’re going to form your own opinions. -Miss Velma.

There’s nothing left of me, because you have it all.

The world likes to tell us not to be judgmental. To be kind and tolerant, loving and forgiving. But what they want and what they they're actually willing to do are two very different things. At the core, the world is shallow. They want physical beauty, even if it's only skin deep.

We could stay. You could sleep it off and we can still go to Disney with everyone tomorrow. Don’t you want to go to Fantasyland?” I batted my eyelashes.Jackson ran his thumb and forefinger over his lip, catching his grin and a speck of dried blood at once. The second that grin appeared, it was as if the entire evening’s events evaporated. “Why, Emma Pierce, do you want me to take you to Fantasyland and make all of your dreams come true?” He winked with his good eye. It was painfully adorable.

It was the fangirl code for every book geek: read, chat, squeal. Re-read, chat, and squeal again, until it’s all over and the dreaded book funk sets in. Find the next best thing to fill the void, then repeat steps one through three as necessary.

My guitar's name was Liz. As in, short for Elizabeth, Queen of England. She was a lady.Don't judge.

She pursed her lips and nodded, swiveling around to continue her survey of my modest living space. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest as she strolled around. Letting out a long, deep breath, she dropped her hands to her sides when she reached my DVD collection. “Downton Abbey?”I jolted forward, clearing my throat. “Yeah, it’s uh…it’s a good show.