“He doesn’t ever feel the war that goes on in my chest every single fucking day—the chemical explosions that light up my skull like the Fourth of July and the awful needs and impulses and…”

“[...] because he doesn't ever feel the war that goes on in my chest every single fucking day - the chemical explosions that light up my skull like the Fourth of July and the awful needs and impulses and...”

“I still love you in my own fucked-up way.”

“Why did You give us so many stories about miracles? Why did Yousend Your Son down from heaven? Why did You give us movies if life doesn’t ever end well?What kind of fucking God are You? Do You want me to be miserable for the rest of my life?”

“And I still love you in my own fucked-up way. I miss you, I really do. Can we still be friends?”

“When I read the actual story-how Gatsby loves Daisy so much but can't ever be with her no matter how hard he tries-I feel like ripping the book in half and calling up Fitzgerald and telling him his book is all wrong, even though I know Fitzgerald is probably deceased. Especially when Gatsby is shot dead in his swimming pool the first time he goes for a swim all summer, Daisy doesn't even go to his funeral, Nick and Jordan part ways, and Daisy ends up sticking with racist Tom, whose need for sex basically murders an innocent woman, you can tell Fitzgerald never took the time to look up at clouds during sunset, because there's no silver lining at the end of that book, let me tell you.”

“Maybe you will never be able to forgive me, but I wanted you to know I had the best intentions-and I still love you in my own fucked-up way.”