Love: The Sickest Of Irony’s Sick Jokes.

...she Is Too Beautiful, I Think, To Not Be Inherently Evil.

Little-boy Love...the Cleanest Pain I've Ever Known. Love Without Desire, Conditions, Or Limits - A Pure And Radiant Glow In The Heart That Could Make Me Giddy And Sad And Glorious All At Once. Where Does It Go? Why, In All Their Experiments, Did The Magi Never Try To Capture That Purity In A Bottle? Perhaps They Couldn't.

And I'll Have You Know That If You Hurt My Son Again, If He So Much As Sighs Sadly Over His Coffee, I Will Hire A Man, A Russian, Probably, To Hunt You Down And Rip All That Shiny Black Hair From Your Head, Then Break Your Skinny Arms And Legs, And Set You On Fire, And Then Put You Out With A Hammer. And Should There Be Children From Your Beastly Rutting, I Shall Have The Russian Man Cut Them To Tiny Pieces And Feed Them To Madame Jacob's Dog. Because, Although He May Be Only A Worthless, Simpleminded, Libertine Artist, Lucien Is My Favorite, And I Will Not Have Him Hurt. Do You Understand?

It’s Like He Has This Power Over Me—like I Have An Eating Disorder And He’s A Package Of Oreo Double Stuff Cookies.

It's Wildly Irritating To Have Invented Something As Revolutionary As Sarcasm, Only To Have It Abused By Amateurs.