“I'm not the same person I was. I'm fucked up." I give her a sideways glance. "I am," she says. "You haven't even scratched the surface.""I find that most people worth knowing are fucked up in some way or another.”

“I've come to the conclusion that there are two types of people. The fucked up good and the fucked up bad. You see, everybody's fucked up. Everybody has had traumas in their lives to deal with. With most people these traumas mess them up inside... but a few people they come through even better adjusted somehow... I mean, they haven't developed damaging emotional problems.”

“Ann, I love you. I hope my car starts. I hope the sink isn't plugged up. I'm glad I didn't fuck a groupie. I'm glad I'm not very good at getting into bed with strange females. I'm glad I'm an idiot. I'm glad I don't know anything. I'm glad I haven't been murdered. When I look at my hands and they are still on my wrists, I think to myself, I am lucky.”

“I was fucked-up in some essential way that other people could see, but I couldn’t.”

“I'm a survivor. I was thinking about what you said, and you're absolutely right - I have to let go to continue. This devastating news is not going to slow me down. I'm my own person. I always have been. I've never believed in those people who blame everything on their parents - you know, I'm a fuck-up because my father was a fuck-up. Or I'm a drunk because my mother was an alcoholic. So my father was a hit man? Maybe. So he murdered my mother? Maybe. I don't know any of these things for a fact. But I'm accepting them, and I'm beginning to realize they're not part of who I am.”

“I just want you to know that most of the time, I have absolutely no fucking clue what I'm doing. I just happen to be good at making shit up as I go along.”