All hopes I had of a roommate who would help upgrade me to a higher social stratum snagged on the gleaming barnacles of Steven’s orthodontia.

Order belongs to the wealthy,” he said, and we both laughed because that was all we could afford to do.

There were no people or cars out; if not for the houses around me, I could have been in a forest. Something about the moment – likely my adolescent conviction that my pain had more beauty, more holiness, than the average person’s, that it was exceptional and exquisite – compelled me to tell myself to memorialize it. I suppose it is this kind of egotistical delusion that drives some people to make art.

Sometimes the only way to start over in life is to burn down the house.

Sometimes I wonder if, having the ability to time travel back to certain moments in which our fear or impulsiveness got the best of us and resulted in an unsatisfying outcome, we would actually alter our behavior knowing what we know now, or if we would end up repeating exactly what we did the first time, surrendering to those elemental directives, incapable of deviating from some preordained essence of our character.

I’m an extroverted introvert at best. But everyone says that, right? They want to claim the best parts of each – that they can be charming when they need to, but they really prefer solitude. No one’s ever, like, ‘I have the neediness of an extrovert and the poor social skills of the introvert.’ Sorry.

Sometimes the guys who look the most normal are the biggest pervs of all.