I had read it twice, carefully, without bending the spine, without marking a single page. I like my things in pristine condition—you never do. You leave pieces of yourself everywhere, in the smallest places, in the spaces no one else thinks to look.

When I get really depressed, I picture myself in my late twenties— overweight, alone, clinging to friendships that only exist because I’m funny.

All of the aspects of myself listed above will change. And it is inevitable. There is no stopping it. 

I fear that I will never learn from my mistakes and my past actions, always circling back to the same poor choices—like a child trapped on a merry-go-round, watching everyone they love fade into the distance as the ride spins on.

Would I become a fugitive on the run– hiding from myself, my actions, and my own personality?

I’m not socially anxious; I just don’t know how to start a conversation. I feel like I have nothing in common with the people around me

I am my new ceramics project— just waiting for inspiration, or motivation, to strike.

Yeah, the band on stage sucks, but the way you sway makes the experience worth it.

You don’t need to separate yourself from everyone else. You just need to get out of your head.

I wish my life were that way—infinite—but it’s not, and it never will be.

You say you want to live in Los Angeles, but you don’t know what it means to really live there.