Jonathan Tropper

Fate already warned us to pack it in. We just didn__ hear it in time.

It's just hard to see people from your past when your present is so cataclysmically fucked.

At some point, loneliness becomes less a condition than a habit.

At some point, loneliness become less a condition than a habit. In time, you stop looking at your phone wondering why you can't think of anyone to call, stop getting you hair cut, stop working out, stop thinking that tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life. Because tomorrow is today, and today is yerterday, and yesterday beat the shit out of you and brought you to your knees. The only way to stay sane is to stop hoping for something better.

Our minds, unedited by guilt or shame, are not for public consumption, because they would either be hurtful or else just make us look like the selfish and unkind bastards we are. We don't share thoughts, we share carefully sanitized, watered-down versions of them.

She got on a plane to see a client in California and somewhere over Colorado, the pilot somehow missed the sky.

Pity, I've learned, is like a fart. You can tolerate your own, but you simply can't stand anyone else's.

The tears come to my eyes so fast, there's just no way to stop them.

There's always a last time. If you could remember every last time, you'd never stop grieving.

You want to move on, but to do that you have to let her go, and you don't want to let her go, so you don't move on.

Forgiveness is a comfort, but it doesn't bring back what you lost

I wasted a lot of time being angry, time I can't get back. And now I see you, so angry about what happened to your marriage, and I just want to tell you, at some point it doesn't matter who was right and who was wrong. At some point, being angry is just another bad habit, like smoking, and you keep poisoning yourself without thinking about it.

I may not be old but I__ too old to have this much nothing

The thing about living alone is that it gives you a lot of time to think. You don't necessarily reach any conclusions, because wisdom is largely a function of intelligence and self-awareness, not time on your hands. But you do become very good at thinking yourself into endless loops of desperation in half the time it would take a normal person.

I was sprawled out in my usual position on the couch, half asleep but entirely drunk, torturing myself by tearing memories out of my mind at random like matches from a book, striking them one at a time and drowsily setting myself on fire.

Because the thing of it is, no matter how much you enjoy sex, there__ something jolting and strangely disturbing about witnessing the sex of others. Nature has taken great pains to lay out the fundamentals of copulation so that it__ impossible to get a particularly good view of the sex you__e having. Because when you get right down to it, sex is a messy, gritty, often grotesque business to behold: the hairs; the abraded, dimpled flesh; the wide-open orifices; the exposed, glistening organs. And the violence of the coupling itself, primitive and elemental, reminding us that we__e all just dumb animals clinging to our spot on the food chain, eating, sleeping and fucking as much as possible before our something bigger comes along and devours us.

It's an absurd request. Our minds, unedited by guilt or shame, are selfish and unkind, and the majority of our thoughts, at any given time, are not for public consumption, because they would either be hurtful or else just make us look like the selfish and unkind bastards we are.

Everyone always wants to know how you can tell when it's true love, and the answer is this: when the pain doesn't fade and the scars don't heal, and it's too damned late.