Things have been a mess for so many years that trying to pin down a starting point is like trying to figure out where your skin starts.

I'm really not a fan of voiceovers; I think they become a crutch.

I'm generally somebody who hopes for the best. It's not what one ought to do in my line of work [screenwriting], but it is what I do.

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.

I wake up like this, this sense that I've somehow been transported to an alternate universe where my life took a left instead of a right beacuse of some seeemingly insignificant yet cosmically crucial choice I've made, about a girl or a kiss or a date or a job or which Starbucks I went into...something.

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

What it must feel like, I thought, to look at something, anything really, and know that it’s for the last time?