“I'm not happy," she whispered. "I don't know what I am, but this isn't happiness.”

“I know I'm bitter and a little jaded, and mildly enjoy it, but am I a sad person? Am I happy? I plan on being happy in the future for sure, but it isn't here yet. So what does that make me, exactly?”

“I don't know who I am, I don't know what I'm like, how can I know what I want? I only know that whether I'm good or bad, whether I'm a bitch or not, whether I'm strong or weak or contemptible or a bloody martyr - I mean whether I'm fat or thin, tall or short, because I don't know - I want to be happy.”

“I find no importance in showing others that I am happy; it's not important to me that they know or think that I am happy but what is important to me is that I am happy. I am interested in being happy, not in making others think or know that I am.”

“And what's the point of changing when I'm happy as I am?”

“I do not know what makes a writer, but it probably isn't happiness.”