There is not even a Scrabble word for how bad I feel.
If you want to live where people are not afraid of mice, you must give up living in palaces.
She is sugar, curiosity, and rain.
Be sad, be sorry-but don’t shoulder it.
We are liars. We are beautiful and privileged. We are cracked and broken.
He was contemplation and enthusiasm. Ambition and strong coffee. I could have looked at him forever.
He was a person who couldn’t fake a smile but smiled often.
But the thing that makes me really messed up is the contradiction: when I’m not hating myself, I feel righteous and victmized. Like the world is so unfair.
I’ll be fine, they tell me. I won’t die. It’ll just hurt a lot.
Singin’ in the Rain was most excellent if you like movies where people burst into song and tap-dance. Which I do, though not as much as I like movies where people don’t.
The island is ours. Here, in some way, we are young forever.
One day I looked at Gat, lying in the Clairmont hammock with a book, and he seemed, well, like he was mine. Like he was my particular person.
People think of hearts when they think of love, but a heart is a bloody organ in the body. It doesn’t have any emotions. It’s like a metaphor for love that has nothing to do with what love actually is.
They know that tragedy is not glamorous. They know it doesn’t play out in life as it does on a stage or between the pages of a book. It is neither a punishment meted out nor a lesson conferred. Its horrors are not attributable to one single person. Tragedy is ugly and tangled, stupid and confusing.
Here I am frozen, when I deserve to burn.
She wasn’t a person who needed to be liked so much as she was a person who liked to be notorious.
I love him, but I am not sure I like him.