" I’m not preppie enough for you, I say. His silence holds as we drive. I amplify my rhetoric and volume. Maybe I should be wearing a kilt with a fucking gold safety pin, I say. He parks the car outside our apartment. As he’s locking up, he says—color blazing high on his flared cheekbones—And you quit your job. With your school loans and your father sick. Are you crazy? This is a buzzword with me, since deep down I know I’m crazy, my chief fear being that everybody’ll find out. "

― Mary Karr , Lit