Kiss Quotient Quotes

All the things that make you different make you perfect.

If you can’t stand being with a woman who’s more successful than you, then leave her alone. She’s better off without you. If you actually love her, then know the value of that love and make it a promise. That is the only thing she needs from you.

I don't want just a night or a week or a month with you. I want you all the time. I like you better than calculus, and math is the only thing that unites the universe.

She didn’t know how to be semi-interested in something. She was either indifferent . . . or obsessed.

Michael was mint chocolate chip for her. She could try other flavors, but he’d always be her favorite.

When you love someone, you fight for them in every way you know how.

How did one not obsess over something wonderful? How did one like something a reasonable amount?

The hero didn’t even have to win. All he had to do to get the girl was fight for her. If he lost, she’d kiss him better.

Everything about him pleased her. Not just his looks, but his patience and his kindness. He was good. He was an obsession waiting to happen.

No one should need a diagnosis in order to be compassionate to themself.

She had a disorder, but it didn’t define her. She was Stella. She was a unique person.

This crusade to fix herself was ending right now. She wasn't broken. She saw and interacted with the world in a different way, but that was her. She could change her actions, change her words, change her appearance, but she couldn't change the root of herself. At her core, she would always be autistic. People called it a disorder, but it didn't feel like one. To her, it was simply the way she was.

Everyone deserved to love and be loved back. Everyone.

The world stopped. All was silence but for their hearts trying to synchronize their crashing.

Yes, she was lonely. Yes, she had a broken heart. But at least she had herself.

How did you change your life when you were trapped like this? Her history didn't define her. Her origins didn't define her. At least, they shouldn't. She could be more, if she had a chance.

This goes two ways, Stella. You like the feel of me. I like the feel of you.

Love, he found, was a jail. It trapped, and it clipped wings. It dragged you down, forced you to places you didn’t want to go

Could you say something, please? When a guy tells a girl he loves her, he doesn’t want silence in response. Was I too late? Are you over me?” “Are you wearing the underwear I got you?” Laughter cracked out of him. “Sometimes, the way your mind works is a complete mystery to me.

Money is better than men.

She ached so badly to be held it felt like a sickness had invaded her muscles and bones. As usual, her own arms provided little comfort.

I do wonder if she’s acting just like I am. How much of what people say is genuine and how much is politeness? Is anyone really living their life or are we all reading lines from a giant script written by other people?

Warm. Content. Safe in his arms. Him safe in hers. She hugged him tighter. He was bigger and stronger, but she would protect him with everything she had.

When you loved something, you were good at it. If you weren't good right away, you got good at it.

She was so beautiful she made his chest hurt.

All I can do is go forward, and to do that, I must stop chasing perfection. It doesn't exist. I can never please everyone. It's hard enough just pleasing myself. Instead, I must focus on giving what I have, not what people want, because that is all I can give.

The only good thing this broken heart of mine can feel is love for you.

The thing with feelings is they pass. Hearts aren’t designed to feel anything too intensely for too long, be it joy, sorrow, or anger. Everything passes in time. All colors fade.

Women buy underwear for the men they love. It’s economics. Data supports this claim.” “Are you telling me you love me, Stella?” She hugged Karate Bear tight and nodded, suddenly overcome by shyness. “You’re not going to give me the words?” he asked. “I’ve never said them to anyone but my parents.” “You think I run around telling women I love them?” He pulled her close and pressed their foreheads together. “I’m going to get the words out of you. Tonight.

Women buy underwear for the men they love. It’s economics. Data supports this claim.

In a split second, she redefined perfection for him. His standards aligned to her exact proportions and measurements. No one else would ever live up to her.

Their bodies lined up next to each other in that perfect way, and he pressed his cheek to hers like he was savoring being close to her. “Please, don’t let me make you cry,” he whispered in her ear. “If something is wrong, tell me so I can fix it. Please.” Her heart squeezed, and she hugged him tight. “I’ll tell you.

Happy people don't wear all black.

For that’s the only place where true perfection exists—the blank page. Nothing I actually do can compete with the boundless potential of what I could do. But if I allow the fear of imperfection to trap me in perpetual beginnings, I’ll never create anything again.

I don’t care what these hands do as long as they’re yours.

You’re wet already, Stella. You’re like a Lamborghini. Zero to sixty in two point seven seconds.

I’ve missed you.” So badly his body had broken down. “I need to know you’re safe and happy. And I want you close. With me.

Your body wages biological warfare on me.

People like me better when I make them feel good about themselves.

Just because something isn't perfect doesn't mean we need to throw it away.

Smiles are real when they reach your eyes.

Show me how to make it good for you, too,” he said as he looked at her directly, no trace of shame on his face. “Because I need you to feel the way I do right now.

In his experience, shit didn't need a reason to happen.

Tough love is brutally honest and hurts you to help you. Tough love cuts you when you're already bruised and berates you when you don't heal faster.

Quan gave him an impatient look. "Did you touch her clit at all?" "What's that?" "Oh hell," Michael said. Quan smacked his palm to his forehead. "Her clitoris. It's where you stimulate her to make her come." "Where is it?" Quan rubbed both hands over his face as Michael repeated, "Oh hell.

He exhaled sharply, and his brow creased in puzzlement. “You don’t like French kissing?” “It makes me feel like a shark getting its teeth cleaned by pilot fish.” It was weird and far too personal.

Don’t forget to apologize. First with words. Then with your tongue.

They’d tell me to quit indulging myself and snap out of it. Tough love is our way. Being tough on myself isn’t working now, though. I can’t try harder than I already am.

I have pockets, you know. You could have given me your cards and phone to hold for you.” “I didn’t think of that. I left my phone at home because I couldn’t fit it in.” But now that she knew it was an option . . . This was why women had boyfriends.

What would he think if she told him how difficult it was for her to do things like dancing and drinking? Going out was supposed to be fun. For her, it was work—hard work.

She still shared a bed with him, but she kept her back to him and balanced on the very edge, as far away from him as possible. Sometimes, he worried she’d fall off. Other times, he hoped she’d fall off. So he’d have an excuse to tell her to come closer.

More precisely, I’m an econometrician.” In Michael’s book, that put her solidly in the brainiac category, and an odd feeling ghosted up the back of his neck. Damned if he didn’t have a thing for smart girls.

I like you better than calculus, and maths is the only thing that unites the universe.

The government didn't care about her, the schools didn't, the scholarship organizations didn't, but this one person did, and sometimes one person could make a world of difference.

It’s not winning the race that’s important. It’s this moment right here, when I’m lying in the mud staring up at the dark sky with rain falling in my eyes. It’s facing the pain, facing failure, facing myself, and finding a way to make it to the end.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and he let hinself savor the moment - not speaking, not fucking, not doing anything, just being with someone.

A slow me is much better than a sick me

Lips to lips, hearts melting together, no distance between them, not even an arm's length.

She needed to get ready for bed, but first, she wanted to do nothing for a few moments. Just nothing. Nothing was such a luxury

He was ignoring everyone, including her, at this expensive wedding, so he could read a novel about alien demon things.

I wasn't loneliness if it could be eradicated with work or a Netflix marathon or a good book. Real loneliness would stick with you all the time. Real loneliness would hurt you nonstop.

I'd like you to watch what you're doing and saying, and if it's something that doesn't feel right and true to who you are, if it's something that exhausts you or makes you unhappy, take a look at why you are doing it. And if there isn't a good reason... try not doing it.

She put a spoonful of mint chocolate chip in her mouth. [...] "Let me try it." She held her bowl toward him, but he didn't put his spoon in it. He trailed his fingers over her jaw as he tipped her head back and sealed his lips over hers. His tongue speared into her mouth, and the salt of him mixed with the flavor of the ice cream. She didn't know if she was mortified, shocked, aroused or all three.

Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?” “Either that or I don’t talk.

I can't brush it aside just because I don't understand it. I can't place judgement on it. Pain is pain. I know what it's like to hurt and for others not to understand.

When you love someone, Michael, you fight for them in every way you know how.

It’s like pricking yourself with a needle. Do it once, and you’re okay. You can ignore that it even happened. Prick yourself repeatedly without giving yourself time to heal, and soon you’re injured and bleeding.

Hearts aren’t designed to feel anything too intensely for too long, be it joy, sorrow, or anger. Everything passes in time. All colors fade.

Why couldn’t all men be just like her father? He thought she was beautiful and brilliant, and his smell didn’t make her sick.

I walk home in a sort of trance. It’s not until passing pedestrians give me double takes and odd looks that I realize I’m crying. I don’t try to stop. I let the tears fall. I cry for the girl I used to be. I cry for me. It’s a foreign experience. Self-pity is not an indulgence that I allow myself. This doesn’t feel like pity, though. It feels like self-compassion, and the realization makes me cry harder. No one should need a diagnosis in order to be compassionate to themself.

Perhaps this is what I’ve always needed without really knowing it, to love myself without shame and without reservation.

He’d never imagined her with another man, but he sure as hell was now. The thought irritated the shit out of him.

As a society, we need to have compassion for all people affected by illness and disability—and that means those who receive care as well as those who give care. We all matter, and no one should feel like they can’t ask for help when they need it. If someone says they’re hurting, please listen. Please take them seriously. Please be kind. If you’re hurting, please be kind to yourself.

He was a puzzle she never would have been able to solve if he hadn't shown her how. Those were the best kinds of puzzles, though, weren't they? The ones no one else could figure out?

For several stomach-twisting moments, she ran through her list of presocialization reminders: think before you talk (anything and everything can be an insult to someone; when in doubt, say nothing), be nice, sitting on your hands prevents fidgeting and feels good, make eye contact, smile (no teeth, that’s scary), don’t start thinking about work, don’t let yourself talk about work (no one wants to hear about it), please and thank you, apologize with feeling.

She was a bloodthirsty villainess.

I see, and for the first time in my adult life, I don’t care that I’m making a scene. I haven’t hurt anyone. I shouldn’t be ashamed. I shouldn’t need to apologize. This is me.

Anna’s pain is real. I can’t brush it aside just because I don’t understand it. I can’t place judgment on it. Pain is pain.

Very deliberately, she reversed her shower routine, scrubbing herself from bottom to top. She wasn't a robot or a disabled autistic girl. She was herself. She was enough. She could be anything. She could make herself into anything. She could prove everyone wrong.

Which was actually one of her main weaknesses, and a defining characteristic of her disorder. She didn’t know how to be semi-interested in something. She was either indifferent . . . or obsessed. And her obsessions weren’t passing things. They consumed her and became a part of her. She kept them close, wove them into her very life. Just like her work.

Math is the single most elegant thing in the universe, and economics is what drives the human world. If you want to understand people in a sophisticated manner, I believe economics is the way.

Nothing I actually do can compete with the boundless potential of what I could do. But if I allow the fear of imperfection to trap me in perpetual beginnings, I’ll never create anything again.

he couldn’t check all her boxes within the next two lessons, he’d feel obligated to extend the length of their arrangement, and that was a bad idea. He might do something stupid and fall for her.

When she died, demons were going to torment her for eternity instead of letting her reincarnate. Or worse, they'd let her reincarnate, but she'd be a catfish who lived under a river outhouse. It was only fair. That was what she got for wishing food poisoning on people.

His mom frowned. "He wants me to get a boyfriend. Me. I'm almost sixty," Janelle nodded sagely. "It's never too late for true love." "Bah. I just want to work. Money is better than men. I want a Hermès handbag.

She wasn’t good at lying, but she knew how to pretend she was okay.

This yearning for her, this craving, it's sunk so deep into me that it's part of me now. This is how Quan is now. He's crazy about this one girl.

He matters more to me than the voices in my head.

Last night had been a fiasco filled with panic attacks and fear sweat...

His house was his sanctuary, the one place where he could escape people and just be.

It wasn't an absolute of course. People were people, and they hated to be entirely predictable.

How much of what people say is genuine and how much is politeness? Is anyone really living their life or are we all reading lines from a giant script written by other people?

I want to be the person she thought I was, a confident motherfucker who wouldn't give a shit about any of this. But I do give a shit. I want to be enough —for her, for me, for the people in my life.

So beautiful. And here. She’d come to find him again. No one ever looked for him. They all knew he wanted to be alone. Except it wasn’t always that way. Sometimes he was alone out of habit. Sometimes it took effort to distract himself from the growing emptiness inside.

How the hell did you teach sex?

He wanted to take his time and see if he could make her shine with a different kind of excitement.

There’s no need for sorry. If you love her, we’ll learn to love her, too.

He got out of bed and pulled on his jeans, fully aware of her audience's appreciative gaze. He felt a little ridiculous about it, but maybe he did it slowly. Maybe he flexed his abs and biceps as he zipped his fly and buttoned his pants. Because really, putting on pants required a lot of muscle.

He wondered what made a person a person. Was it something mystical like a soul? Something scientific like neural connections in the brain? Or something simpler like the ability to make someone miss you ten years after you'd died?

He never minds. Even when they throw themselves at him. You should have seen the last one. She asked him out to dinner, and he said, ‘No, thanks, I already ate.’ ‘Dessert then?’ ‘No, I don’t eat dessert after class.’ ‘Coffee?’ ‘That will keep me up, and I have work tomorrow.