“And now I am here, as alone as I've ever been. I am seventeen years old. This is not how it's suppose to be. This is not how my life is suppose to turn out.”

“How am I supposed to stop caring? I’ve loved them since I was four years old, and I don’t know how to quit.”

“What is it with you women?" he yelled, kicking at the air. "You come into our lives, you take everythin'! Throughout the years you got little pieces of me, of my very SOUL, and NOW? Now you got my damn straight razor! How am I supposed to kill people? How am I supposed to even SHAVE?”

“I've grieved enough for his life cut short and for mine for running on for so long with so little in it. It's weakness now, but I suppose I am crying out of a general sense of loss. Maybe I am mourning for the human condition.”

“I hate this, I want this to stop, how are we supposed to live with this, and how am I supposed to walk away? You’re real and I hate you for it.”

“Now here I am, seventeen with a bullet.”