Jo ★The Book Sloth★

“Yes, I'm a hermit. Mostly I brood," Mad Rogan said. "Also, I'm very good at wallowing in self-pity. I spend my days steeped in melancholy, looking out the window. Occasionally a single tear quietly rolls down my cheek.”
― Ilona Andrews, Burn for Me

“It must be nice to fly.”
“Is that sarcasm?”
“No. If I could fly, I would live in tree. Stare down at everyone . . . quietly hating them all.”
― G.A. Aiken

“Why are you still standing here?"
His uncle leaned back, peering out into the hallway. "I need you to come to town with me," he muttered.
"You're not on my schedule."
His uncle scowled. "I'm not what now?"
"I wrote out a schedule. You're not on it."
"Uh-huh. Can you fit me on the schedule?"
Bo grabbed the notepad off his night table and looked it over. "Well, let's see, maybe I could move-"
Grigori snatched the pad from him and tore it up, throwing the tiny pieces at Bo's head.
Bo stared at him. You don't think I made a copy?”
― Shelly Laurenston

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Grandma Frida asked. I put my hand over my face. “No,” Mad Rogan said. “A boyfriend?” Grandma Frida asked. “No.” “What about . . .” “No,” Mom and I said in unison. “But you don’t even know what I wanted to ask!” “No,” we said again together. “Party poopers.” Grandma shrugged.”
― Ilona Andrews, Burn for Me