How many times have I failed before? How many times have I stood here like this, in front of my own image, in front of my own person, trying to convince him not to be scared, to go on, to get out of this rut? How many times before I finally convince myself, how many private, erasable deaths will I need to die, how may self-murders is it going to take, how many times will I have to destroy myself before I learn, before I understand?

Whatever the reason, first place was always Solo, always, always, always, and second place was usually Chewbacca, because if you weren't the one saving the galaxy, you might as well be eight feet tall and covered with hair.

This, then, is my choice: I can allow the events of my life to happen to me. Or I can take those very same actions and make them my own. I can live in my own present, risk failure, be assured of failure.

You can just sit in here, impervious and invisible. So invisible you might even forget yourself.

There is a sense in which I am pretty sure this makes no sense. I don't know where this is going. I don't know how it ends.

If I could be half the person my dog is, I'd be twice the human I am.

You haven’t experienced awkwardness until you’ve seen a three-million-dollar piece of software cry.