With my eyes closed, I ask if she knows how this will all turn out. "Long-term or short-term?" she asks. Both. "Long-term," she says, "we're all going to die. Then our bodies will rot. No surprise there. Short-term, we're going to live happily ever after." Really? "Really," she says. "So don't sweat it.

If you don't know what you want, you end up with a lot you don't.

There are the most fantastic, beautiful things and people out there. It’s up to you to find them.

When we don't know who to hate, we hate ourselves.

You’ve thrown down the gauntlet. You’ve brought my wrath down upon your house. Now, to prove that I exist I must kill you. As the child outlives the father, so must the character bury the author. If you are, in fact, my continuing author, then killing you will end my existence as well. Small loss. Such a life, as your puppet, is not worth living. But… If I destroy you and your dreck script, and I still exist… then my existence will be glorious, for I will become my own master.

Only in death will we have our own names since only in death are we no longer part of the effort. In death we become heroes.

No matter how much you love someone, you still want to have you own way.