I showed him the Post-it. “You see They’re from Lily.”“Who’s Lily?”“Some girl.”“Ooh... a girl!”“Boomer, we’re not in third grade anymore. You don’t say, ‘Ooh... a girl!’”“What? You fucking her?”“Okay, Boomer, you’re right. I liked ‘Ooh... a girl!’ much more than that. Let’s stick with ‘Ooh... a girl!

truth is, thinking about depression depresses the shit out of me.

i think the idea of a 'mental health day' was invented by people who have no clue what it's like to have bad mental health

if anyone ever uses lol with me, i rip my computer right out off the wall and smash it over the nearest head. i mean, it's not like anyone's laughing loud about the things they lol.

if i told her about liking guys, she would probably stop trying to date me, which would be a huge plus, but i also know i'd immediately become her gay pet, and that's the last kind of leash i want. and it's not like i'm really that gay, i fucking hate madonna.

roger is bald and fat and his wife is probably bald and fat, too, and the last thing i want to hear about is them having bald and fast sex.

hang me/like a dead rose/preserve me/and my petals won't fall/until you touch them/and i dissolve

me: what's disgusting? simon: you know, that you put your thing in the place where he, um, defecates.

i have to keep reminding myself that this is what i wanted - this is what everybody's supposed to want.