“I just wish that God or my parents or Sam or my sister or someone would just tell me what's wrong with me. Just tell me how to be different in a way that makes sense. To make this all go away.”

“Just tell me how to be different in a way that makes sense.”

“Just tell me why; why the fucking why?" To which the universe would hollowly respond, "My ways cannot be known, oh man." Which is to say, "My ways do not make sense, nor do the ways of those who dwell in me.”

“...You don't always get what you expect. I wish someone, sometime when I was growing up, would have told me what expectations would get me. ... Our parents, schools, everyone tells us things will be a certain way when we're adults and if they're not that way, we should make them be; or at least pretend. But after a certain point that just doesn't work.”

“To all my critics that never believe in me... Please tell me again what I can't do in my life? Now outta my way. I'm going to make it happen!”

“Maybe, like my parents and grandparents, I can trust myself to be a mom without a reference library to tell me how. Maybe I don't need magazines, television of the internet to tell me how. And maybe most of all I don't need marketing campaigns designed to make money off my good intentions to tell me how. Maybe I know how. Or, by God, I'll figure it out.”