“if i'm going to fuck up my life, does it really matter which way i do it?.”

“I love you," he whispered, and that was the moment he knew what he was going to do. When you loved someone, you put their needs before your own. No matter how inconceivable those needs were; no matter how fucked up; no matter how much it made you feel like you were ripping yourself into pieces.”

“Don't say it. Don't say nobody's going to stare at me, because they will. Don't tell me it doesn't matter because it does. And don't tell me I look fine because that's a lie. I'm a freak, Mom. Look at me.”

“If there's something as good as [him] in my life, I'm going to pay for it.”

“Then Henry speaks again. "Did he do it?"I turn to him slowly. "Does it matter?”

“I have come to believe that this life I'm wearing will never really fit.”

“The optimist in me wants to believe sexuality will eventually become like handwriting: there’s no right way and wrong way to do it. We’re all just wired differently. It's also worth noting that when you meet someone, you never bother to ask if he’s right or left-handed. After all: does it really matter to anyone other than the person holding the pen?”