“Freakin’ fairies, you’re too damn small!”“Dude, you’re a faecist.”“A what?”“A fae-racist, you’re a faecist.”“That’s not even a real word!”“Patten pending,”

“Believe me, if you’re a teenager, you’re always in the damned woods. Literally, you’re in the woods — probably too much you’re in the woods. And metaphorically you’re in the woods, in your life.”

“You’re not user-friendly. You’re too needy. You have no social currency. You’re a freak. Without a normative side, you can’t get in. That’s it. Sorry.”

“If you’re gonna have your head split open, it might as well be while you’re riding a wave, dude.”

“A few machines dance in the air, an orderly has to be sedated, and suddenly you’re Freddy freakin’ Krueger.”

“You’re a lot of things, Nell Hawthorne. You’re complex. You’re cute. You’re lovely. You’re funny. You’re strong. You’re beautiful.” She seems to be struggling with words and emotions. I keep going. “You’re tortured. You’re hurting. You’re amazing. You’re talented. You’re sexy as fuck.”