Katja Millay Quotes

He's the kind of good-looking that transforms once self-respecting females into useless puddles of dumbass.

He turns back to the fountain so his eyes aren't on me anymore, but I think he's still watching. "I'd ask you, you know. If I was allowed. I'd ask you a thousand times until you'd tell me. But you won't let me ask.

When I look at her now, I think, for just one second, that God doesn't hate me so much after all.

It's not that I wanted to be dead, I just felt like I should be. Which is why it's hard when everyone expects you to be grateful simply because you're not.

So let's pretend. One night. We'll go out and pretend we're normal.

I can't find a street sign, but I know I ran fast and I ran far and I didn't pay attention to anything. I broke every rule that I have and I've gotten what I deserve for it. It's the middle of the night and I am alone and lost and drenched in darkness.

It seems like the more my body healed, the more fractured my mind became, and there aren't enough wires and screws to fix he breaks in it.

My jealousy is a living thing. Shifting, changing, growing. Like my rage and my mother's regret.

Because it's good when you find one that does mean something. Makes all the empty ones worthwhile.

My closet and I are on my own. My closet is of no use to me. It may actually be laughing at me. It's true, I hear it.

I don't dress this way because I like it so much or because I want people to stare at me in general. But people are going to stare at me for the wrong reasons anyway, and if they are going to stare at me for the wrong reasons, then at least I should get to pick them.

He needs to be able to fix things and make it all better; to believe that you're okay so that he can believe that he's okay.

Who knows how this whole evening is going to turn out anyway? It's like 'The Breakfast Club' in a powder keg in here and I'm wondering who's going to light the match.

Thank You. Life is short and TBR lists are long. I know time is precious and I thank you for spending yours with this book.

You get halfway through with your life and you realize you haven't done the things you wanted to do or become what you'd thought you'd become and it's disheartening.

If I could be alone, I would. Gratefully. I'd rather be alone than have to pretend I'm okay.

Now - a profanity-spewing guttersnipe being dragged out of a crack house on Cops. I

I have a black-belt in self-pity. I was an expert in the field. Still am. It's a skill you never forget.

If I'm going to be rejected, I'd like it to come complete with humiliation.

I should tell. I know I should. But he's mine. I don't want him getting the chance to walk away. I want him to pay and I want to be the one who decides how.

Some things you just have to learn to live with.

I'd trade my hand all over again to take back everything I did and hear him call me Sunshine.

No one ever asks. Like they think they're doing me a favor. That if they don't bring it up, I won't have to think about it. Just because I don't talk about it doesn't mean i forget. I don't talk about it because no one ever asks.

Some people have problems and you need to learn to empathize, not judge.

I doubt taking in a sullen, bitter, teenage girl with more issues than National Geographic is at the center of the vision board for a single woman in her early thirties.

It's an age old story … Boy meets girl. Boy asks girl to touch him inappropriately. Girl dazzles boy with her impressive knowledge and proper use of profanity.

Dying isn't so bad after you've done it once. . .

I feel like grabbing my crotch and checking to see if my balls are still there because I think they may be in her pocket and I need to get them back.

Emilia," he says, and when he does, it warms me to my soul. "Every day you save me.

I wished my mother was here tonight, which is stupid, because it's an impossible wish." He shrugs and turns to me, drowning the smile that cracks me every time.
"It's not stupid to want to see her again."
"It wasn't so much that I wanted to see her again," he says, looking at me with the depth of more than seventeen years in his eyes. "I wanted her to see you.

I know at that moment what he's given me and it isn't a chair. It's an invitation, a welcome, the knowledge that I am accepted here. He hasn't given me a place to sit. He's given me a place to belong.

I will never forget what you did to me. I will never forgive it. I will never stop mourning what you stole from me. But I realize now I can't steal it back and I'm done spending every day trying to.

Seriously, Josh. What the hell?

Josh isn't in love with me and I'm not in love with him."
"Sell it to someone who's buying, Sunshine. Have you seen the way he looks at you?" I've seen the way he looks at me but I don't know what it means. "Like you're a seventeenth-century, hand-carved table in mint condition.

It's the Josh Bennett equivalent of tattooing her name across my chest.

And as much as I'm telling her to stay here, I still want her to choose to come with me. To say fuck sanity and healing and closure. To say that I am the only thing she needs to be well and whole and alive. But we both know that's not true.

Everything in me turns on and shuts down at the same time. I am weak and strong. I am terrified and brave. I am lost and found. I am here and gone. I'm afraid I'm going to stop breathing again.

Seeing Josh is my homecoming. I didn't tell him I was coming back. He doesn't say anything when he sees me, and neither do I, because the fact that I'm here is an answer. We just look at each other and speak in the silence like we always have and no one interrupts the conversation.

What? Sunshine fits you. It's bright and warm and happy. Just. Like. You.

But she's my tangent girl and I'll follow her if this is where she wants to go.

And girls always want to change the rules in the middle of the game. You can't change the rules and think everyone else is just going to keep playing. I know what her hair smells like, but I can't get close enough to press my face into it. I know how soft her skin is on every part of her body, but I can't touch it. I know what she tastes like, but I can't kiss her, I'm not allowed anymore. So why should I torture myself with being around her, just so I can say we're still friends?

I need to know that there even is such a thing as okay, or maybe not just okay, maybe even good, and it's out there and we just haven't found it yet. There's got to be a happier ending than this, here. There's got to be a better story. Because we deserve one. You deserve one. Even if it doesn't end with you coming back to me.
Josh

Call me Sunshine again, and I will murder you, cocksucker.

I believe in God, Sunshine. I've always believed that God exists," he says. And what he says next isn't self-pity or angst or melodrama. It's truth. "I just know that he hates me." Maybe

He holds up a finger to her to convey that he'll just be a minute. If I were him, I'd choose a different finger.

We're like mysteries to one another. Maybe if I can solve him and he can solve me, we can explain each other. Maybe that's what I need. Someone to explain me.

I'd also believe that all teenage boys go around calling girls baby, because apparently that's the express train to romance.

I haven't started counting yet. I wonder if it's just me or if it's like that for everybody; that every time someone dies you start counting how much time has passed since they've been gone. First you count it in minutes, then in hours. You count in days, then weeks, then months. Then one day you realize that you aren't counting anymore, and you don't even know when you stopped. That's the moment they're gone.

Sarah. I smiled. I couldn't help but appreciate the absolute perfection of the name; bland, common, and wholly unoriginal. Best of all, it means princess.

He knew he wasn't supposed to die. He was supposed to come back so he could meet her because his heaven was where she was, even if he didn't know it at the time. And that's why he wasn't scared.

When you look at her what do you feel?" "Are you fucking serious? Forget it." He can kiss my ass if he wants to start talking feelings with me. "You obviously want it for a reason." "I want a picture to jack off to. What do you care?" I keep drawing so I don't have to look at him, but I'm mutilating the sketch I'm working on. I'll have to start over, but I don't care. "Joy, fear, frustration, longing, friendship, anger, need, despair, love, lust?" "Yes." "Yes, what?" "All of it," I reply, because I'm all in now whether I like it or not.

As soon as it's out of my mouth, I cringe, realizing that it's probably pretty crappy to complain about your parents to someone who doesn't have any. It's like bitching that your shoes are too tight to someone who's walking across broken glass barefoot.

It must be kind of depressing to have to teach someone who surpasses your abilities on every level.

Girls always want to change the rules in the middle of the game.

I just wanted one person who would look at me and not want to see someone else."
"Who looks at you like that?" I lift my head up and lower my hands so I can see her face, and I can't imagine anyone looking at this girl and wanting to see anything but her.
"Everyone who loves me."
"Who is it they want to see?
"A dead girl.

I feel like I'm waiting here. Waiting for something that hasn't happened yet. Something that isn't yet. But that's all I feel and nothing else. I don't know if I even exist. And then someone flips a switch and the light is gone, the room is gone, the weightlessness is gone. I want to ask to wait, because I wasn't finished yet, but I don't have a chance. There is no gentle pulling. No coaxing. No choice. I'm wrenched out. Yanked, as if my head is being snapped back. I'm in the dark and everything is pain. There are too many sensations at once. Every nerve ending is on fire. Like the shock of being born. And then, there are flashes of everything. Color, voices, machines, harsh words. The pain doesn't flash. The pain is constant, steady, never-ending. It's the only thing I know. I don't want to be awake anymore.

When you look at her what do you feel? ... Joy, fear, frustration, longing, friendship, anger, need, despair, love, lust?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"All of it.

I live in a world without magic or miracles. A place where there are no clairvoyants or shapeshifters, no angels or superhuman boys to save you. A place where people die and music disintegrates and things suck.

Everything is hell now and I deserve it, but I can handle pain.

Life is short and TBR lists are long.

I don't know anything about art so I can't tell you that it's watercolor or acrylic or that it's on canvas or anything art related at all. I can tell you that it's a painting of a hand, my hand, turned up and opened to the world and that it reaches into my body and rips out everything that's left. Because in the palm, right in the center, is the pearl button I never reached.

I'm under a microscope where my every facial expression is being studied. It makes me want to scream, but I can't, so I just swallow it like dirt and blood.

My mother's voice. It's the first thing I remember after I opened my eyes. My beautiful girl. You came back to us. But she was wrong.

My phone is on my bed, whispering in my ear like a bottle of scotch to a recovering alcoholic, while the rain continues cackling at me through my window

His hands are miracles. I can watch them for hours, transforming wood into something it never dreamed of being.

I don't know if I'm okay. It shouldn't be possible to be this close to another person. To let them crawl inside you.

I tried to convince myself, too, but I was a much tougher sell because I knew the truth. I was so very not okay. I realized that I was going to feel shitty either way. I was probably going to feel shitty for the rest of my life, a life I should not even still be living. A life that should have let me go. So I got angry. Then I got very angry. Then I got angrier still. But you can only go so long being angry before you learn to hate. I stopped feeling so sorry for myself and started hating instead. Whining was pathetic, but hate got things done. Hate strengthened my body and shaped my resolve and what I resolved to do was to get revenge. Hate seemed pretty damn healthy to me. - Nastya Kashnikov

Daylight won't protect you from anything. Bad things happen all the time; they don't wait until after dinner

Maybe I don't blame myself for what happened, but when they tell you that something was completely and utterly random, they're also telling you something else. That nothing you do matters. It doesn't matter if you do everything right, if you dress the right way and act the right way and follow the rules, because evil will find you anyway. Evil's resourceful that way.

If Edna St. Vincent Millay was right and childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies, then my childhood ended when I was fifteen.

Maybe I can save her right now, in this moment, and if I can do that, maybe it will save me and maybe that can be enough.

I don't want to fix you. I want to fix this.

most. If I could be alone, I would. Gratefully. I'd rather be alone than have to pretend I'm okay. But they won't give me that option. So I'll settle for being with someone who at least doesn't love me as much. I'm thankful for Margot. Not that I tell her this. Not that I tell her anything. I don't.

For a minute I was convinced she must have handed me the wrong schedule, so I checked the top of the paper. No, that's me. I wasn't sure what the right reaction was in that situation. You know the one, where the universe decides to put its steel-toed boot up your ass yet again. Crying was out of the question and a screaming hissy-fit laced with maniacal laughter and profanity was, most definitely, off the table, which left me with my only other option‌ - ‌stunned silence.

People who go around advertising their birthdays are douchebags. It's a fact. You can look it up on Wikipedia.

The world should be full of Josh Bennetts. But it's not. I had the only one. And I threw him away.

Everyone wants to fix me. My
parents want to fix me. My brother wants
to fix me. My therapists want to fix me.
You're supposed to be the person who
doesn't want to fix me.

I imagine she came out of the birth canal holding a cupcake and a spatula.

I'm not deluded enough to think it won't come out somehow, but it's nice to have one person exist who doesn't know all of my tragic bullshit. At least for a little while.

If self-adoration were cologne, he would be the boy you couldn't stand next to without choking.

My mother's hope is a weapon.

It's probably a class for guidance counselors only - How to Emit Inappropriate Joy in the Face of Adolescent Horror. I'm fairly certain they don't make teachers take it, because they don't even bother to pretend.

It's like having a ghost in my garage. I feel like I'm being haunted. With all the dead people I've got in my corner, you'd think one of them would be the one hanging around.

No matter how good he looks right now, Josh Bennett without work boots & the smell of sawdust is all sorts of wrong.

The teacher, Mrs. Jennings...makes us sit in a circle. An elementary school, duck-duck-goose-style circle. This affords each of us the best possible vantage point for studying, and subsequently dissecting one another. Oh, and getting to know one another,of course. That too.

I am pressed so hard against the earth by the weight of reality that some days I wonder how I am still able to lift my feet to walk.

Then, I'll find an empty restroom and check my hair and fix my lipstick, or as we cowards like to call it, hide.

I don't really care what people say about me. I'm fine with lies and rumors. It's the truth I don't want being told.

I'm not trying to capture one face. I'm trying to capture all the faces.

Depends on how badly you want it. It's worth whatever you're willing to pay for it.

I never realized that grief and self-pity weren't the same thing. I thought grieving was what I was doing all this time I had been feeling sorry for myself, but it wasn't. So for the first time in nearly three years, I let myself grieve.

I've done goodbyes before, and I can do this one, too. Somehow this one hurts worse than the others; because this one I could prevent if I wanted to, since I'm the one saying it. This goodbye comes with a choice the way none of the others did.

About last night, I told Drew to keep his hands off you."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because everyone talks shit about you because of it. But its not my business, so I'm sorry."
"And he agreed?"
"Not without persuasion."
"What kind of methods do you have that would work on drew?"
"I lied. I told him you were mine."
( ... )
"Just so you know, you didn't lie.

I need to know that there's a way for people like us to end up okay. I need to know that there even is such a thing as okay, maybe even good, and it's out there and we just haven't found it yet. There's got to be a happier ending than this, here. There's got to be a better story. Because we deserve one. You deserve one.

Just because I don't talk about it, doesn't mean I forget.

These days I'm missing everything. I'm haunted by music; music I can hear, but never play again. Melodies that taunt me note by note, mocking me with the simple fact that they exist.

I would like to believe in the dream of second chances. For both of us.

And if my Sea od Tranquility were real, it would be this place, here, with him.
I don't say anything right away, because I just want one minute to look at him before I give him my last secret.
And then I tell him.
Your garage.

There's a reverence in the way he kisses me that frightens me, because it's the most wonderful thing I've ever felt.

You can't change the rules and think everyone else is just going to keep playing.