Ellen Louise Hopkins (born March 26, 1955) is a novelist who has published several New York Times bestselling novels that are popular among the teenage and young adult audience.
It's probably weird to think about an addiction like it's a sentient being, but that's how it feels. Like it's something living inside you. Something you can't get rid of because killing it means killing you.
Me? Beautiful? I'm plain as cardboard. That may be how you see yourself, but the rest of the world would be hard to agree. You shine brighter than the Milky Way. Now there are those who might try to take that from you, but you don't have to give it away. Keep on shining Pattyn. And when the right young man comes along, he'll love you all the more for giftin' this sad planet with your light.
Just keep on shining that light. The rest will take care of itself.
Funny thing about the monster. The worse he treats you, the more you love him.
I know he wants to get serious. He's definitely not a player, not a poser, not a loser, not a user.
No one teaches you how to walk away from someone who you know loves you. NO one teaches you how to say good-bye.
Have you ever had so much to say that your mouth closed up tight struggling to harness the nuclear force coalescing within your words? Have you ever had so many thoughts churning inside you that you didn’t dare let them escape in case they blew you wide open? Have you ever been so angry that you couldn’t look in the mirror for fear of finding the face of evil glaring back at you?
In fact, since the accident, Mom doesn't love anyone. She is marble. Beautiful. Frigid. Easily stained by her family. What's left of us anyway. We are corpses. At first, we sought rebirth. But resurrection devoid of her love has made us zombies. We get up every morning, skip breakfast, hurry off to work or school. For in those other places, we are more at home. And sometimes we stagger beneath the weight of grief, the immensity of aloneness.
I'm sad. Pressed down by sorrow. I'm angry. Pissed at God, if there is one, and the way things are. I'm scared. Confused by the whys. Why are we here? Is there, really, some intelligent design? Why do we cry for someone who leaves us if there's some Grand Pearly Gate in the sky? Why worry about how we build our lives if the ultimate ending for all is death, a single breath away? (358)
The universe is a big place. If I was lost up there, how would you ever find me
Our meeting, touching, accidentally connecting immediately, interwoven hand-in-hand, heart-to-heart.
When You Weren't Looking. . . why. . . . Can't you. . . care. . . more. . . about. . . me.
I haven't cried since Mom died. I mean, after something like that, what's left to cry about, right? But I let myself cry now. Loss is loss. Doesn't take death to create it. (266)
Must be nice to have that kind of unshakable belief in a merciful higher power.
Torch every book. Burn every page. Char every word to ash. Ideas are incombustible. And therein lies your real fear.
Before you, I believed love was making love. Waiting only makes me love you more.
I wish I were worthy of his love. (Any love. )I should tell him to run. But I can't. I need him.
Not even Carol knows firsthand how it feels to be hurt in such a way by someone who's supposed to protect you
Many readers share their stories with me and if one speaks to me (or if the same theme keeps coming at me), I will research it and decide if it would make a good book. But, straight down to it, people inspire me.
The more I think about it, the more I believe there has to be a subtle yet satisfying method of revenge.