We want you, not your money. As long as you're at fight club, you're not how much money you've got in the bank. You're not your job. You're not your family, and you're not who you tell yourself. You're not your name. You're not your problems. You're not your age. You are not your hopes. You will not be saved. We are all going to die, someday.

Your folks are god, you love them and you want to make them happy but you still want to make up your own rules.

I am the cause of all my upsets. I am my worst enemy.

Deliver me, Tyler, from being perfect and complete.

Kids, she says. When they’re little, they believe everything you tell them about the world. As a mother, you’re the world almanac and the encyclopedia and the dictionary and the Bible, all rolled up together. But after they hit some magic age, it’s just the opposite. After that, you’re either a liar or a fool or a villain.

It's exhausting, the energy it takes to unknow a truth.

I could imagine myself becoming one of Marla's stories.