Hk Quotes

Loving someone was traumatizing. You never knew what would happen to them out there in the world. Everything precious was also vulnerable.

I like knowing that you exist. It doesn't make me feel any less lonely, because life is lonely, but it makes me feel a lot less alone.

To be a hero, you had to decide it was you.

Penny thought of this Korean saying for when you really, really liked something. You'd say it 'fit your heart exactly.' Sam fit her heart exactly.

It's piles and piles of emotional homework forever if you ever want to qualify as a grown-up

It's crazy how lonely it is to be in a family.

The only reason I don’t know more about love is because there just isn’t more to know. In fact, I’ve reduced love to a mathematical formula: Hdgk(X)=H2k(X,Q)∩Hk,k(X). Actually, that’s not right. That’s the statement piece of the Hodge conjecture, but I’m sure you already knew that.


Fiction was fine, but real life was the true freak show.

Penny believed with her whole heart that there were moments - crucial instances - that defined who someone was going to be. There were clues or signs, and you didn't want to miss them.

You've got to understand that not everybody's going to be exactly your kind of person. They're not going to be completely satisfactory or meet your myriad qualifications.

Finally, if you're wondering if it counts and it feels like it counts, it counts.

I find that the more I hide, the more presentable I am to the world

People don’t really want to know how you’re doing. They want to wait until you’re done telling them so they can tell you how they’re doing.

We all have the same boring problems. Sometimes the best thing you can do is talk about it.

It's easier to watch myself be sad than actually feel sad.

I gave him my Order smile: sweet grin, hard eyes, reached over to my passenger seat, and pulled out my submachine gun. About twenty-seven inches long, the HK was my favorite toy for close-quarters combat. The rider’s eyes went wide. “This is an HK UMP submachine gun. Renowned for its stopping power and reliability. Cyclic rate of fire: eight hundred rounds per minute. That means I can empty this thirty-round clip into you in less than three seconds. At this range, I’ll cut you in half.” It wasn’t strictly true but it sounded good. “You see what it says on the barrel?” On the barrel, pretty white letters spelled out PARTY STARTER.

There was more than one type of perfectionist. And that I qualified because the kind of perfectionist I was, was the kind that abandoned everything if I wasn’t good enough at it. And that’s why I couldn’t finish tasks.

I want a world where everything lights up because I'm in it

Trying to get better at the thing you want to be the best at is humiliating.

Everything precious was also vulnerable.

You can be with the same person for a long time and have it be fine and meet someone else who instantly makes you see that it's broken

I want to be with someone I can talk to. I want to be with someone who automatically has a fat folder on me. Someone who feels lucky when I tell them the most unflattering, scary stuff.

If you're going to be racist you should at least try to be less ignorant, although maybe that was a contradiction . . .

Sisters never stand a chance to be friends. We're pitted against each other from the moment we are born. A daughter is a treasure. Two is a tax.

Life isn't a destination. It's the continual practice of things that make you wiser and happier.

She smiled. Sam smiled back. She died.

Yoyoyoyoyoyoyoyooyoyoyyoyoyoyo Come by I baked a SHEETCAKE Your favorite Confetti emoji

Everything about my existence feels like a costume.

It wasn't a romance; it was too perfect for that. With texts there were only the words and none of the awkwardness. They could get to know each other completely and get comfortable before they had to do anything unnecessarily overwhelming like look at each other's eyeballs with their eyeballs.

And for all the people waiting for permission to level up enough before they start working on something big and scary--just go in. Don't be like me.

What's the point? The planet is on fire and everything is random.

Let’s just say when I was little and my mom was out, I’d go to bed with a ketchup bottle.” “I already love this story so much...” “It was a foolproof plan. If the bad guys came in I could douse myself and they wouldn’t kill me because I was already dead.” “Jesus, I can’t tell if that’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard or the absolute most sad.

Dude. Every mom is the most annoying human in the universe, but most of them, besides the super-abusive genuinely bad ones, are in your corner.

People aren't abandoning you just because they go.

The next morning Sam woke up feeling good. Not sensational or anything foolish but supremely okay.

I know what it's like to want to leave. How it feels when the home you have is a mirage, an illusion. But I know that wherever I am, if June's around, I'll be ok.

Penny would stop trying. Instead she'd spend time preparing for her future, living in books until the exciting part of her life would begin. Things would matter then. In fact, everything would be different.

She wished she could explore his body and inspect him. Learn him and memorize him. That way she'd know what to miss when he was gone. Sam was heartbreakingly, hauntingly beautiful. It made her heart hurt. This couldn't end well.

it's more this undeniable mood. It's this warm, familiar and exciting feeling where you miss them already when you're with them.

Everyone is capable of putting words down or telling a story. But not everyone will actually do it.

Marriages are the original tiny cult.

You're only as sick as your secrets. The second you talk about it, pfth. She blows a raspberry and waggles her fingers into the air. It all starts to get a little better. Humans need to share their darkest parts. Unburdening makes you closer to everyone.

Some people’s coping mechanisms were all about festering and secrecy and ruminating until you grew yourself a nice little tumor in your heart with a side of panic attack. Different strokes.

People scared Penny all the time. Like her mother and even Sam. It meant she loved them.

Loving someone was traumatizing.

He holds me longer than I’d expected him to. I leech everything I can out of the hug. Bleed it.

You know how it is, church-folk are all up in your business until that shit actually gets dark. Then, they just think you’re contagious.

He couldn't believe Jude's mute, macabre roommate had saved his life. He wondered if he'd have to get her a small taxidermied spider or something for her efforts.

At least there was coffee. Reliable, delicious, life-giving coffee.

Nothing that is a manifestation of your creative energies is stupid... Doing nothing is the only stupid.

New York is just a place. It's the people who will become a home for you.

Definition: 'Love' is making a shot to the knees of a target 120 kilometres away using an Aratech sniper rifle with a tri-light scope. Statement: This definition, I am told, is subject to interpretation. Obviously, 'love' is a matter of odds. Not many meatbags could make such a shot, and strangely enough, not many meatbags would derive love from it. Yet for me, love is knowing your target, putting them in your targeting reticle, and together, achieving a singular purpose... against statistically long odds...

At least now she had time to write. All the time. In the world. Alone. Forever.

It was inconceivable for Penny that his eyes served any function other than to be admired.

You're way too hard on yourself. This analysis and thinking and plotting and figuring out, it's stopping you from living your life,

Here's what I want to know about school. Everyone assumes kids are bad at decisions, right? So why would anyone let an eighteen-year-old kid pick what they want to do in college?

Penny arranged everything exactly the way that made sense. TP was hung in the correct direction (‘over’ obviously; ‘under’ was for murderers).

When I recognize people, it lets me hope that maybe they recognize me, too.

that no one’s ever looking at me. Really looking.

I'm thrilled at the devastation. Destroying beautiful things so carelessly and so fast.

Grow as you build. Autotelism. ‘Auto’ for self and ‘telos’ for goal. Find joy in the learning, Pablo, not in what it will get you. It took me so much searching to stop searching.

Humans need to share their darkest parts. Unburdening makes you closer to everyone. There’s that thing that all addicts have, that you’re a piece of shit in the center of the universe. That everybody’s obsessed with the ways you fall short. But the truth is, we all have the same, boring problems. Sometimes the best thing you can do is talk about it. It makes no sense, but glory if it doesn’t work like a charm.

When Penny left a banana on her desk as an offering, Jude rejected it. She refused it by putting it on Penny's work chair, so when Penny went to write, she sat on it. As tiny passive-aggressive revenges went, it was adorable, and it killed Penny that they couldn't laugh about it.

This is probably how emergency contacts work. You say something to your person before you go nuts and blow a gasket.

The last thing I asked you was "You good?" Well, are you? I think about it all the time.

It's lonely when no one worries about you. Not even your parents. You start to wonder what's wrong with you.

Hey, dickhead!" one of the other drivers yelled. "Get off the road!" "This here is a Falcon Seven," the rider told him. "I can put a bolt through your windshield and pin you to your seat like a bug." A direct threat, huh? Okay. I pulled down my sunglasses a bit so the rider would see my eyes. "That's a nice crossbow." He glanced in my direction. He saw a friendly blond girl with a big smile and a light Texas accent and didn't get alarmed. "You've got what, a seventy-five-pound draw on it? Takes you about four seconds to reload?" "Three," he said. I gave him my Order smile: sweet grin, hard eyes, reached over to my passenger seat, and pulled out my submachine gun. About twenty-seven inches long, the HK was my favorite toy for close-quarters combat. The rider's eyes went wide. "This is an HK UMP submachine gun. Renowned for its stopping power and reliability. Cyclic rate of fire: eight hundred rounds per minute. That means I can empty this thirty-round clip into you in less than three seconds. At this range, I'll cut you in half." It wasn't strictly true but it sounded good. "You see what it says on the barrel?" On the barrel, pretty white letters spelled out PARTY STARTER. "You open your mouth again, and I'll get the party started." The rider clamped his jaws shut.

One person's success is another's first step, only you can rate your achievements and find peace within yourself.

Sam sighed. Maybe if he called she'd tell him where she'd buried his balls and his heart.

Penny gasped as her body shook with laughter, eyes streaming. Sam watched her like she was nuts.

Penny Googled “imposter syndrome.” Informally used to describe people who are unable to internalize their accomplishments despite external evidence of their competence.

in art you had to shape experiences so that what you wrote was exciting - to the point where the mundane seemed magical and extraordinary.

Sam wanted to get up, calmly set his napkin down, and sprint out into the night.

But I can’t help but wonder how much my people are mine. If they’d claim me in the same way I want to claim them.

It means I’ll think about you all the time and wish you were close even when I’m not here.

It’s dazzling how disposable we all are.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we told each other the things we never say.

In hindsight he was glad it wasn't the good taco spot because it would have been ruined forever. Anyplace that charged seventy-five cents for condiments could burn in hell. On principle.

Unlike cooking, photography kept you on your toes. It was chaotic and human -- utterly unpredictable. to capture an unposed face you had to wait for it. It was spear fishing. you had to move between the competing rhythms of the world and strike.

There was no way she'd allow him to see her do 97 percent of her normal activities. She was a monster. A monster who was flat as a board with no ass. In fact, the only thing she had going on in the curves department was an enormous cystic pimple on her chin that hurt when she touched it. Yeah, no.

I know I love someone when I can’t remember what they look like in any real way. I can never seem to recall whether they’re handsome or ugly or if other people think they’re cute. All I know is that when I’m not with them and I think about them, where their face should be is this big cloud of good feelings and affection.

Plenty of people craved attention. It had to be the right person, someone who naturally commanded it. Sam suspected most outwardly noisy people were boring in the inside. No more than the textbook swirl of insecurities and narcissism.

It wasn't a romance; it was too perfect for that.

There was no way Penny would go to House and let Sam see her. That would ruin everything. Sam would take one look at her and be like, "Yikes, never mind.

The thought of doing all of this over makes my soul leave my body. I can't imagine how tiring it's going to be. But I also love the idea of June's name looking after both of us.

Cancer must feel like such a betrayal, knowing that somewhere deep in your body you're manufacturing tiny bombs that detonate and catch fire

It’s fucking art, man,” he said, scowling. “You don’t choose it. It chooses you. If you waste that chance, your talent dies. That’s when you start dying along with it.

Hell really was other people.

Don't you find it fascinating that we don't know what we don't know?" -Jayne "It is fascinating. Knowing that we don't know everything leaves room for mindfulness. It opens up the possibility that thoughts and feelings can change. Perception is a lot more subjective that anyone feels in the moment." -Gina

Over the years, Penny inhaled the classics—Ready Player One, Dune, and Ender’s Game, though it wasn’t until she was introduced to Messiah, ironically from a guy who was the worst dude in the history of dudes, that she realized sci-fi didn’t have to be so . . . boy.

Create diverse characters because you can. Especially ones that aren’t easy to write. A character that scares you is worth exploring. Yet if you breathe life into a character and it comes to you too easily—say you’re writing from the viewpoint of a black man in America and you’re not one? Think hard about where your inspiration is coming from.

She wondered if the rest of early adulthood would be like this — avoiding roommates, getting ripped off for bad fusion food, and the peculiar loneliness of being smothered by people she didn’t want to spend time with.

Fernweh is rooted in pain, or sickness and sadness,” says Gina. “It’s directly translated as ‘far pain’ or ‘far sickness’ as opposed to ‘heimweh’ or ‘homesickness.’ But it’s also longing for the unknown, since the familiar is stifling or challenging. The foreign can seem fantastic, exalted, since its possibilities are infinite. We have no data or experience around it. But once we arrive and the faraway is known and becomes familiar, then what? You’ve got all that energy and longing and possibility that no longer has anywhere to go. It’s got nowhere to be invested, nowhere to live.

I thought a polished appearance and stellar behavior would be the passport to belonging. And when I inevitably failed at perfection, I could at least wilfully do everything in my power to be kicked out before anyone left me.

But sometimes it's so incidental that these people are the parents. Beyond the biology of it. It's not as if they had to pass a test or unlock achievements to be the ones making the decisions. Sometimes they're actually stupid.

She laughed. “Are you in love with Penny?” “How is that a conclusion? That’s a question.” Jude rolled her eyes. “She says she’s in love with you.” “She did not.” “Fine, she didn’t say those exact words, but it’s the only explanation. She’s in love with you.” “Stop,” he said. “You know she’s inscrutable. You ever notice how she seems furious when she’s super excited?” Jude laughed. “Or when she’s actually furious and starts bawling? That’s a classic,” she responded.

Unlike cooking, photography kept you on your toes. It was chaotic and human—utterly unpredictable. To capture an unposed face you had to wait for it. It was spear fishing. You had to move between the competing rhythms of the world and strike.

Sometimes our claim of knowing people closely is just a claim; because we can never know anyone closely, we just become familiar with the part of their personality which suits our thought process at a certain period of time, but once the mask is removed, what comes out is an unknown face.

It’s not my responsibility to get to the bottom of why my mom’s so unhappy. Nor is it on me to teach my dad how to parent. I love them and I forgive them, but I don’t go to the hardware store looking for orange juice and I don’t expect them to give me things they don’t have. I give myself permission not to spend time with them.

The thing about Sam was that he had a tell. Well, two. They weren’t an exact science, but they gave you a sense. One was his hair. He had a great head of hair. Dark and longer on top, his ex-girlfriend—who came up as “Liar” on his phone now—had referred to it as irresponsible hair. If it was relaxed and tucked behind his ears, Sam was chill. If it was slicked back, he was spoiling for a fight. If it was fluffy—a very rare treat—it meant he completely trusted whoever was around at the time. Sam’s hair hadn’t been fluffy in a while. Today it was tucked back yet also, kinda, done. With the telltale sheen of product. It was inscrutable.