Sara Wolf Quotes

I have a talent for hurting things," Jack perches the rifle on his cocked hip, and it's so insufferably arrogant I want to shove him into the ball pit next to us and slash or furiously make out with him. "But we always knew that, didn't we?

You are the sun, I try to say, You are the most important. You are the only light that's ever truly pierced my armor. You are the happiness and the spark and the one girl who never ran, who never cowered, who saw through my facade. I will never meet another girl like you, I will never want anyone as much as I want you. I don't deserve you.

I'm crazy and going crazier, and I don't know how to stop it.I don't know how to stop this hurrible darkness from eating me alive, and no one in the world is going to help me.

You like it. Knowing things about people. It makes you feel powerful.

Hairy monkeyballs!” I hiss. “Dogshit on a stick! Puke pancakes!” A head pokes in. Wren, green eyes smiling, walks over to my bed.“I knew you were awake. Who else spews such original and captivating swears?

The waitress scuttles away, and I make a shooing motion at the old couple who’re still glaring. “Don’t you have something to better to work on?” I hiss. “Like golfing or eating prunes or dying?” The old lady looks shocked. “Okay, sorry, not dying. But seriously, prunes are good for you.

How did you find me? If you hacked into the Club’s computer to look up my appointments - "“Whoa, I think you overestimate me, shitlord. Last time I checked all I did was be in the wrong place at the right time. I saw you and had to - ”“Stalk me.”“ - delicately approach you. In a sideways manner. From behind. Without being seen at all. For ten minutes.

You’re seventeen! Why do I have to keep reminding you of that? There are soooo many women you haven’t even met yet! Don’t act like you’re tired of the puss-puss, no guy is ever tired of the puss-puss.

I leave her to chemically combust and find Wren in the student council office, filling out extremely interesting paperwork. He’s buried behind piles of the stuff. I can barely see tufts of his blonde hair poking out. I reach into the paperwork pile and shove the two halves aside. Hundreds of them fall off the desk and to the floor. Papers drift through the air like snowflakes. Fat, boring-ass snowflakes. Wren looks up, face slack with shock. “Whatcha doing?” I ask. “Dividing up funding for the other clubs,” He whispers, clearly distraught. A paper plops onto his head and slides off dejectedly. I’m respectful for three seconds. “So anyway, I had this nightmare in which Jack was sexy and Kayla died.

It comes true because we're wise, dear.

I would love to slap you right now, but I’m currently wielding a nine pound ball and I’m afraid that would be called murder.