Freud suggests that in order to love someone else, one must love themselves; it's a classic "needs before other needs" argument. Unfortunately, no one really loves themselves . And, if they do, they need to get to know themselves better. Unfortunately, no one is really happy.

It's semi-frustrating when your name actually becomes a synonym for douchebag.

Underwear. It's like a god damned leash. It also constantly reminds me of how funny I look naked.

I was a superlate bloomer, and I was kind of a prude. I always wanted to be able to keep the number of people I've had sex with very low, because I never wanted to have to tell my future wife, "Oh, yeah, I was with 30 people."

That’s the problem with all of this. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make it perfect. I can’t keep it in a bottle, can’t ignore reality. Chemicals are involved, the kind scientists try to synthesize and put into pill form, and they’re making tremendous advances every day. They’re winning the war against love. It’s probably inevitable now. There are only two ways to see the world: either no one and nothing is connected to anything, or we are all a random series of carbon molecules connected to each other. Tell me if there’s room for love in either of those scenarios.

He felt like the last bullet in a gun meant for revenge, sealed with a kiss.

Freud suggests that in order to love someone else, one must love themselves; it's a classic "needs before other needs" argument. Unfortunately, no one really loves themselves . And, if they do, they need to get to know themselves better. Unfortunately, no one is really happy.