Danny Baxter

“You pick your endings, and your beginnings. You get to pick the frame, you know? Maybe you don't choose what's in the picture, but you decide on the frame.”
― John Green, Turtles All the Way Down

“Pretty much I would let Gemma know
that she is a fat cunt
and, um the shoes that she gave me were
not something that I would particularly
buy for myself.

They were old maiden type of shoes, and
she said that those shoes were meant to
be worn on a beautiful woman

So if that is the case she should have put
them back on the rack and she should
never even purchased them because she
was UNQUALIFIED to own those shoes if
that's the case

and, um I think that Gemma is just a
disgrace. She's a disgrace to women who are
actually beautiful and classy and, um she
just doesn't have the vernacular she
thinks she possesses

Somebody lied to her several times and
told her that she was fly, hot and sexy
and beautiful and she's nothing like that
She's nothing of the sort”
― Tiffany Pollard

“The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your header underwater because he is trying to kill you, and you deserve it, you do, and you know this, and you are ready to die in this swimming pool because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means your life is over anyway. You’re in the eighth grade. You know these things. You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do long division, and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you didn’t do, because you are weak and hollow and it doesn’t matter anymore.”
― Richard Siken, Crush

“Did I want to be like him? Did I want to be him? Or did I just want to have him? Or are "being" and "having" thoroughly inaccurate verbs in the twisted skein of desire, where having someone's body to touch and being that someone we're longing to touch are one and the same, just opposite banks on a river that passes from us to them, back to us and over to them again in this perpetual circuit where the chambers of the heart, like the trapdoors of desire, and the wormholes of time, and the false-bottomed drawer we call identity share a beguiling logic according to which the shortest distance between real life and the life unlived, between who we are and what we want, is a twisted staircase designed with the impish cruelty of M.C. Escher.”
― André Aciman, Call Me by Your Name