She can paint a lovely picture, but this story has a twist. her paintbrush is a razor, and her canvas is her wrist.

Devon had been so lonely, so terribly lonely, for so long. The kind of lonely that sears, that burrows its way deep inside a heart and throbs. Like a gnawing hunger.

And wishes, truly wishes, that she could say the same herself. Because hurting herself would be so much easier.

A pattern of raised crisscrossed scars, some old and white, others more recent in various shades of pink and red. Exposing the stress of the structure underneath its paint

Become great in God’s eyes so as to bring freedom to your people

Greater love hath no man then this, that a man lay down his life for his friends

Oh, traccy traccy ply ply bracket doints and divs

Beware! Freedom of speech also includes the freedom to be misunderstood.

Like I always say, there's no "I" in "team." There is a "me," though, if you jumble it up.

Your choices of action may be limited, but your choices of thought are not.

If, after obtaining Buddhahood, anyone in my land gets tossed in jail on a vagrancy rap, may I not attain highest perfect enlightenment.

The whole idea is to earn the flavor. No one gives it to you.

I want to write books that unlock the traffic jam in everybody's head.

I'm helping launch the new Milky Way Chocolate Ice Cream Bar. I play an astrophysicist on television, and the name of the bar is Milky Way, so put two and two together, and here I am.