...For the rest of my days...

You’re twenty-one or twenty-nine and your heart’s been broken somewhere between four and twenty times—fetal-position-on-the-bathroom-floor broken, real-country-music broken—and you don’t know how you can ever be expected to go on like this for fifty more years and change.

No one but myself knows the anxiety I go through and the trouble I give myself…

I am a pile of bones on the floor and no one knows it but me. I am a broken skeleton with a beating heart.

Can you hear my heart? I want to ask him. I want you to make a list of all your favorite things, and I want to be on it.

One cannot be deeply responsive to the world without being saddened very often.

Depression is a good lover. So attentive. Has this innate way of making everything about you.

You don’t get to choose who handles your heart. There are simply people who were born with it in their teeth. When you meet them, it is best to build a bomb shelter.

its tight that my fundraiser was a success when I barely put up anything about the movie at all… like i didn’t post the plot, or the actors that are going to be in it, and the crew, or even make a pitch video. that stuff is lame. like all u need 2 know is that im fuckin tight, i smoke weed, and i have film skills.