He had to be nice to me at the moment because he had to be surrounded by people. This was because boys like him were, essentially, pasta. Everyone thought they loved him because they had...

Grandma’s house had the atmosphere of a Tupperware box left out in the sun. Like a tropical flower, she had to be kept warm and moist at all times, or she would wilt and die.

I was practically The Boy in the Bubble; all my autoimmune responses stripped bare by chemical representations of pine forests and summer meadows.

Nothing’s ever all bad if you think hard enough about it.