Mosquitoland Quotes

I am a collection of oddities, a circus of neurons and electrons: my heart is the ringmaster, my soul is the trapeze artist, and the world is my audience. It sounds strange because it is, and it is, because I am strange.

When you were born, you cried while the world rejoiced. Live your life so that when you die, the world cries while you rejoice.

I'm feeling reckless - or honest, maybe. Sometimes, it's hard to tell the difference.

As simple as it sounds, I think understanding who you are—and who you are not—is not the most important thing of all Important Things.

Every great character, Iz, be it on page or screen, is multidimensional. The good guys aren't all good, the bad guys aren't all bad, and any character wholly one or the other shouldn't exist at all. Remember this when I describe the antics that follow, for though I am not a villain, I am not immune to villainy.

You spend you life roaming the hillsides, scouring the four corners of the earth, searching desperately for just one persons to fucking get you. And I’m thinking, if you can find that, you’ve found home.

I swear, the longer I live, the less things make sense.

You know–I think my best course of action is to just let the ridiculousness of that sentence marinate.

Life can be a real son of a bitch sometimes, bringing things back around long after you've said good-bye.

Sometimes a thing doesn’t seem real until we say it out loud.

I wish wishing were enough, but it's not. Sometimes you need a thing.

Sometimes, things are more embarrassing when you're alone. I guess when no one's around to hear your stupidity, you're forced to bear the brunt of it.

Life, it seems, delivers the best punch lines only after we've forgotten we were part of a joke.

Sometimes you walk into a room one person, and when you come out the other side, you're someone else altogether.

I have limited experience, but I know this: moments of connection with another human being are patently rare. But rarer still are those who can recognize such a connection when they see one.

What if … what if … what if … I play the What If? game all the time. But it’s rigged, is the thing. Impossible to win. Asking What If? can only lead to Maybe Things Could Have Been Different, via Was It My Fault?

I think about how quickly things have changed for me. But that’s the personality of change, isn’t it? When it’s slow, it’s called growth; when it’s fast, it’s change. And God, how things change: some things, nothings, anythings, everything… all the things change.

I swear the older I get, the more I value bad examples over good ones. It's a good thing too, because most people are egotistical, neurotic, self-absorbed peons, insistent on wearing near-sighted glasses in a far-sighted world. And it's this exact sort of myopic ignorance that has led to my groundbreaking new theory. I call it Mim's Theorem of Monkey See Monkey Don't, and what it boils down to is this: it is my belief that there are some people whose sole purpose of existence is to show the rest of how not to act.

Pain makes people who they are.

My Reasons may be hard, but my Objectives are quite simple.

You ever have the feeling you lost something important, only to discover it was never there to begin with?

Home is hard. Harder than Reasons. It's more a storage unit for your life and its collections. It's more than an address, or even the house you grew up in. People say home is where the heart is, but I think maybe home is the heart. Not a place or a time, but an organ, pumping life into my life. There may be more mosquitos and stepmothers than I imagined, but it's still my heart. My home.

Do so with gusto, because my God, there's nothing sorrier than a gusto-less existence.

But that’s the personality of change, isn’t it? When it’s slow, it’s called growth; when it’s fast, it’s change.

Exactly why I don't have a boyfriend," I whisper, turning to the window. Because you've referenced The Lord of the Rings twice before lunch, or because you're talking to yourself? I have to admit, I've got me there.

So I float in silence, watching the final touches of this perfect moonrise, and in a moment of heavenly revelation, it occurs to me that detours are not without purpose. They provide safe passage to a destination, avoiding pitfalls in the process.

She never said so out loud, but some things speak loud enough on their own.

He wraps an arm around me, and I swear we were once a single unit, a supercontinent divided millions of years ago - like my fifth grade science project - now reunited into some kaleidoscopic New Pangea. "I'm Madagascar," I say, sleepily. "You're what?" "I'm Madagascar. And you're Africa." He squeezes my shoulder, and - I think he gets it. I bet he does.

Have a vision, unclouded by fear.

And I'm sick of things the way they are, my many oddities, my limited depth perception, as if it's not bad enough I only see half the world, but it always seems to be the wrong half.

I cry because I've never smiled like that, not once in my life. I cry because I love. For some reason, I always have.

It's okay." I say again. Because if I keep saying it, maybe it will be true. It's okay it's okay it's okay it's okay.

I smile at Beck, a wide-eyed, can-you-believe-the-awesomeness-that-is-Walt sort of smile. He's wearing the same one. "I think we'll all remember the rendezvouski.

Everything sounds better on vinyl. It’s not a trend. It’s a fact.

Sometimes being with gets overlooked I think

Help is help to anyone, Mary. Even if they don't know they're asking for it." I said that made a whole lot of sense, because it did. And it still does. Here's the thing, Iz: my mom needs help right now. And I know it, even if she doesn't.

Remember that, Iz. Be a kid of honesty. Wave it like a banner for all to see. Also, while I'm thinking about it - be a kid who loves surprises. Squeal with delight over puppies and cupcakes and birthday parties. Be curious, but content. Be loyal, but independent. Be kind. To everyone. Treat every day like you're making waffles. Don't settle for the first guy (or girl) unless he's the right guy (or girl). Live your effing life. Do so with gusto, because my God, there's nothing sorrier than a gusto-less existence. Know yourself. Love yourself. Be a good friend. Be a kid of hope and substance. Be a kid of appetite, Iz. You know what I mean, don't you? (Of course you do. You're a Malone.) Okay, that's all for now. Catch you on the flip side. Blimey, get ready. Signing off, Mary Iris Malone, Your Big Sister

I cry because I love. For some reason, I always have.

for though I am not a villain, I am not immune to villainy.

Beck’s smile is intense and sincere, a smile with, not a smile at. Mom used to say you could tell a lot by the way a person treats the innocent, and Walt is nothing if not innocence personified.

Arlene was one of a kind, a true friend when I needed one, a grande dame from the old school. She was the sweetest of old ladies, and I will miss her dearly. All of those things are true, but the words I choose are far more profound. "She smelled like cookies," I whisper through tears.

I act like I don't care, but I do. I always have. And my God, what wouldn't I give to put the pieces together?

Don't underestimate the value of friends.

I was lovely once, but he never loved me once.

Look at you," I whisper, smiling, crying. "Lovely.

And even though things are heavy right now, it occurs to me how happy I am just to be with my friends. Sure, I'd love to kiss-hug-marry-hold Beck, but for now, I'm happy just to be with him. Sometimes being with gets overlooked I think.

Why are my medical mysteries Reasons? I'm glad you asked. I've developed a theory I like to call the Pain Principle. The gist of it is this: pain makes people who they are.

And behind the good doctor, his Wall of Hubris: I counted seven framed degrees, hung with care and pride and more than a little jackassedness. Oh-ho, you don’t believe I’m important, eh? Well then, how do you explain these?!?!?!

I have a license,” says a voice behind us. I turn to find 17C scrolling through pictures on his camera, standing in the front yard like a deep-rooted tree, like he’s been there for years. Somehow, that black eye only makes him more desirable. “And you are . . . ?” asks Moses. A) Perfect B) The god of Devastating Attractiveness C) A flawless specimen, created in a lab by mad scientists in an effort to toy with the heart of Mary Iris Malone D) All of the above I circle D. Final effing answer.

and in a moment of heavenly revelation, it occurs to me that detours are not without purpose. They provide safe passage to a destination, avoiding pitfalls in the process.

I wish wishing were enough, but it's not.

Like a Siren, it tempts me with whispered promises of the ever-elusive Normal Life.

I call it Mim’s Theorem of Monkey See Monkey Don’t, and what it boils down to is this: it is my belief that there are some people whose sole purpose of existence is to show the rest of us how not to act.

Closing his eyes again, Beck repositions his head on the back of his seat, and in one sure movement, reaches over and grabs my hand. Even with his eyes closed, he knew where to find me. I want to cry for a thousand reasons, laugh for a thousand others; this is my anomalous balance, the place where Beck and I can let the ridiculousness of our collective sentences marinate, and other things, too. It’s a singular moment of clarity between two people, and rare or not, I’m not about to let go. I’m done roaming hillsides. I’ve scoured the corners of the earth. And I’ve found my people. God, I’m almost jealous of myself. Holding Beck’s hand in my lap, I find a courage I never knew I had and drop my head on his shoulder.

And as simple as it sounds, I think understanding who you are - and not who you are not - is the most important thing of all Important Things.

There are times when I absolutely, 110 percent, without a doubt, have to laugh at a thing. ’Cause if I don’t, that same thing will make me go stark-raving bananas.

People say home is where the heart is, but I think maybe home is the heart

I'm already jealous of myself five minutes ago. Because you can't un-know a honky-tonk

I'm a Picasso, not a Vermeer

A real apology cost something, because you had to stand there like an idiot and say it out loud for the world to hear - I'M SORRY. And the world, as always, would respond with a resounding, 'Yes. Yes, you are.

Be a kid of honesty. Wave it like a banner for all to see.. Be a kid who loves surprises... Be curious, but content. Be loyal, but independent. Be kind. To everyone. Treat every day like you're making waffles... Live your effing life. Do it with gusto... Know yourself. Love yourself. Be a good friend. Be a kid of hope and substance. Be a kid of appetite

What would I tell her? The truth, I hope. That in my longing for originality and relational honesty and a hundred other I-don't-know-whats, this action, while strange and socially awkward, makes more sense than just about anything else in my world. And even though it's cryptic and more than a little odd, sometimes cryptic and odd are better than lying down for the Man.

Yes, Mom but how does the music get from that needle" - I pointed my chubby little finger to the record player -"to my heart." My earliest memories of music had nothing to do with listening, and everything in the world to do with feeling. - Mim, Mosquitoland

The truth is, reasons are hard. I’m standing on a whole stack of them right now, with barely a notion of how I got up here.

And I think of all the times I thought I wasn’t okay, and all the times maybe I could have been,

That's the thing about life - you don't know how long you have until you're dead, and by then, you don't know much of anything at all.

Peer pressure is one thing, but when your dad's the pusher, it's something else entirely.

Later in life, it would occur to me that this was the ultimate dichotomy: for a person to want what's best but draw from their worst.

I lowered my voice, because as I’d learned some time ago, a whisper was louder than a scream

I’m done roaming hillsides. I’ve scoured the corners of the earth. And I’ve found my people. God, I’m almost jealous of myself.

People say home is where the heart is, but I think maybe home is the heart. Not a place or a time, but an organ, pumping life into my life.

Pain is what matters. Not fast cars or big words or fabulous stories in exotic settings. And certainly not some French-toasted-sunrise-sensei-servant-motherfucker. I

I am not me, I said to the ocean, to the old feet, to the face in the mirror. And it was true. In the dream, the reflection staring back at me was not my own. It was my mother's.

Because this is my life, the only one I get. And if it's a choice between a life Albilitoled, or a life full of Life... well, that's not really a choice at all.

Yes, Mom but how does the music get from that needle [...] - to my heart.

Remember this when I describe the antics that follow, for though I am not a villain, I am not immune to villainy.

I am Mary Iris Malone, and I am empty, cleaned the fuck out. All that's left is a fierce hunger for flight.

..you should write. It's better than succumbing to the madness of the world... And cheaper than pills

I sat there frozen, wondering if this icy truth could ever melt, if the madness of the world could ever be cured

I see a million miles of life, a million lives in one, a million headaches, heartaches, brainaches, a million ingredients in her eyes

in a moment of heavenly revelation, it occurs to me that detours are not without purpose. They provide safe passage to a destination, avoiding pitfalls in the process.

The good guys aren't all good, the bad guys aren't all bad and any character wholly one or the other shouldn't exist at all.

There are times when talking just pushes out the tears.

(Every great character, Iz, be it on page or screen, is multidimensional. The good guys aren’t all good, the bad guys aren’t all bad, and any character wholly one or the other shouldn’t exist at all.

It’s a fortress of passion, a crash--a fatal collision of neurons and electrons and fibers, my circus of oddities coming together as one, imploding in a fiery blaze. It’s . . . I-don’t-know-what . . . my collection of shiny. It’s love.

A pall fell over the room. A black shroud of disease and deathbeds and all the worst things from all the worst places. This mutant world, a tragic portmanteau, the unnatural marriage of two roots as different as could be. 'And do you, Ability take Vitriol to be your lawfully wedded suffix?' I wanted to scream objections to the unholy matrimony, but nothing came out. My mouth was clammy and dry, full of sand. Dr. Wilson smiled on, rambling about the benefits of Abilitol while my father nodded like a toy bobblehead immune to the deepening shadow in the room. As they spoke, I caught my mother's eye. I could tell by her face that she felt the deepening shadow too. Neither of us smiled. Neither of us spoke. We felt the shadow together.

Before you now it, you're in high school, wondering if you're the only one who actually read Brave New World, rather than it's summary on Wikipedia. Or you're sitting in the cafeteria, pondering the complexities of the latest Christopher Nolan film while the nearest table of cheerleaders discusses whatever reality TV show is popular that week, then argues over who gives the most efficient blow job. Surely, the real world would be different. But I'm beginning to wonder if the whole damn planet hasn't been Wikipedia'd

Be curious but content. Be loyal, but independent. Be kind. To everyone. Treat every day like you're making waffles. Don't settle for the first guy (or girl) unless he's the right guy(or girl). Live your effing life. Do so with gusto, because my God, there's nothing sorrier than a gusto-less existence.

But there's quality behind Dustin's eyes when he talks, a dimness, like the slow fade of a dying flashlight. Like someone forgot to replace the batteries in Dustin's face. This kind of emptiness can only be filled with heartache and struggle and I-don't-know-what...the enormity of things. The shit-stink of life. And neither the enormity nor the shit-stink can be found in a pancake breakfast. Pain is what matters.

Prone to unwieldy dreams, I’ve always found naps to be more exhausting than refreshing, and this one was no exception

things like time hardly matter when dealing with a familiar spirit.

Help is help to anyone, Mary. Even if they don’t know they’re asking for it.

I’ve been watching you,” says Poncho Man. If there are four creepier words in the English language, color me a monkey’s uncle.

There are some people whose sole purpose of existence is to show the rest of us how not to act

Most girls my age had long ago stopped telling the truth, and simply started saying what everyone wanted to hear.

People just can’t help themselves when it comes to quotation marks. As if they’re completely paralyzed by this particular punctuation. I guess it’s really not that big of a deal, but it does seem to be a widespread brand of easily avoidable buffoonery.

It’s just the two of us, cursed to face one another amid the ravenous elements of this bus station for all of forever.

I think about how quickly things have changed for me. But that’s the personality of change, isn’t it? When it’s slow, it’s called growth; when it’s fast, it’s change. And God, how things change: some things, nothings, anythings, everythings . . . all the things change.

I guess when too many people like you all at once, it can sometimes make you go crazy.

It’s deep and real and fucking old-school. It’s a fortress of passion, a crash—a fatal collision of neurons and electrons and fibers, my circus of oddities coming together as one, imploding in a fiery blaze. It’s . . . I-don’t-know-what . . . my collection of shiny. It’s love.