I blame Hollywood for skewing perspectives. Life is just a big romantic comedy to them, and if you meet cute, happily ever-after is a forgone conclusion.

At some point, being angry is just another bad habit, like smoking, and you keep poisoning yourself without thinking about it.

We are all smiling in the picture, three brothers having a grand old time just playing around in the living room, no agendas, no buried resentments or permanent scars. Even under the best of circumstances, there's just something so damn tragic about growing up.

I want to explain everything to him, show him that it’s really not as screwed up as it all sounds, but then I remember that it is.

Forgiveness has its comforts, but it can never give you back what you've lost.

Fate already warned us to pack it in. We just didn’t hear it in time.

Everyone always wants to know how you can tell when it's true love, and the answer is this: when the pain doesn't fade and the scars don't heal, and it's too damned late.