I READ SOMEWHERE that human beings are genetically predisposed to record history. We believe it will prevent us from doing stupid things in the future.
History chews up sexually uncertain boys, and spits us out as recycled, generic greeting cards for lonely old men.
History shows that an examination of the personal collection of titles in any man’s library will provide something of a glimpse into his soul.
My brother Max nodded knowingly. “Head injuries can answer a lot of questions that genetics are just too afraid to ask.
All roads lead past shooting ranges, liquor stores, and gay bars. Wanderlust is part of the American Spirit.
I do not know why, because that is not my job, but history shows that every time a teenage boy opens a permanent marker, he will first sniff it before deciding how to go about defacing the planet.
I realize that death and survival are both extremes of selfishness.
People naturally believe things they see. Nobody argues with the irrefutable postings on YouTube.
I don’t know exactly what the Xanax did to me. All I can remember is how relaxed and not-uptight I felt. I did not care about anything. Everything was nice, very nice.
The television was on. Leslie Mitchell had been watching a program about how to cook lamb when Hungry Jack came in and started eating him.
The more time you wait before telling somebody the truth about a secret you’ve been keeping, the longer your path out of the woods gets.
I began to consider the fact that maybe history is actually the great destroyer of free will.
My natural talent, I think, is in being fine – no matter what is actually going on inside me. I am fine. Nobody ever thinks otherwise.
I’m foolishly self-conscious.
And I’m pretty sure that everyone in the Pacific Northwest heard Ryan Dean West shout, “YOUSTEPPEDONMYFUCKINGNUTSYOUSONOFABITCH!
I don’t care if you’re queer,” Robby said. “Queer is just a word. Like orange. I know who you are. There’s no one word for that.
Please do not shoot us in the balls, EJ Elgin. It is only me, Robby Brees, and my friend, Austin Szerba, who is your next-door neighbor, and we are not rat boys from Mars. We come in peace, and smoking cigarettes.” “Benson.
And then I wondered, does cussing count in the general scheme of things if you only cuss in your head and not out loud?
It was like watching my house catch fire, but I couldn’t look away, because how many times do you ever get to see a house burn down?
You need to get up, Finn. I’m not going to let you stay in here like this any longer. Cade’s waiting downstairs, and I exhausted all possible topics of conversation with him back when he was about twelve years old.