Someone once said that it is better to have loved and lost then to have never loved at all. The truth is, that's abosolute crap. Its better to have never loved than to loose someone in the way described in the book. Asking for your help, but being too disgusted to do anything but weep by yourself in a locked bedroom. All the while they mix insomnia pills with bourbon, sweet as cough syrup.

There has never been any book to have touched me in such a way. I feel I can identify (although I know that my mother did not commit murder, and I also know that I am not in foster care hell) with Astrid. Her pain at least.

But I have Bigger things to Worry about.