Quotes from Jonathan Tropper

You still go to therapy?" "Nah. I gave up years ago." "Mental health ins't for everyone.

You still go to therapy?" "Nah. I gave up years ago." "Mental health isn't for everyone.

The music from my youth has aged poorly and is now like a joke out of context. You had to be there.

Did i say something wrong?" "Well, in your defense, there is no right thing to say.

You get married to get an ally against your family.

the only thing you can ever really know about anyone is that you don't know anything about them at all.

Everybody dies alone. That's a fact. Some more alone than others.

Love made us partners in narcissism, and we talked ceaselessly about how close we were, how perfect our connection was, like we were the first people in history to ever get it exactly right. We were that couple for a while, nauseatingly impervious assholes, busy staring into each other's eyes while everyone else was trying to have a good time.

This is how it ends, he thinks. Strangely, he is not panicked, just a little bit sad. He tells himself to pay attention. If this is death it will only come once, and he doesn't want to miss anything. Like he did when he was alive.

Consequences are a concept for the sober.

One of the earliest memories I have of my father is of him urinating... What must it be like, I wondered, to unleash so much power through so flimsy an attachment?

This was his childhood, safe and warm and brightly lit, and being here now makes him feel like he died years ago and he's now a lost spirit, stuck between worlds with unfinished business.

An empty silence descends upon them. How the hell is this supposed to work, anyway? People meet people every day. They talk, they go out, they kiss, they fuck, they fall in love, they make families, and all because they managed to push past any initial introversion and awkwardness to make contact. He wishes they were drunk.

I find that most people worth knowing are fucked up in some way or another.

shudders and seems to sink a bit further. "And the contractor is running two other jobs in the neighborhood. The Jacobsons, he's redoing their pool house, and he's doing

She looks at him for a long moment, then sighs deeply. "Silver," she says, her voice tinged with a profound sadness with which he is all too familiar. All the things you can't get back, all the things you can never make right. No matter what happens after, you'll always carry them with you.

Well, you are dying—on purpose." "And you're pregnant—by accident." "A fine pair we make," she says.

You're thinking about one woman while trying to reach another, and despite this apparent abundance of women, you feel lonely and desolate as hell, and, almost unconsciously, you drive to the house of a third, and the third woman is your mother. It has to be unconscious, because conscious, you'd know right away that it's a big mistake. Somewhere, there's a therapist sitting alone in his office, staring wistfully at his door, wishing for a patient like you.

And the moment is taking its sweet time, is expanding like a big red balloon, and all I can do is sit here and try to look appealing while I wait for it to burst.

The doorbell rings, and eager as I might be to continue my fond reverie of bad hair bands, pulverized birds, and my insensitive father, I clear my head and run downstairs to open the door.

I know that if I were a spirit, the last place you'd find me haunting would be my grave, watching my body rot.

The cobbler's children go barefoot

In the classroom, though, the water rains down on us as Phillip grabs what's left of the joint, still lit, and swallows it whole, with the confidence of someone for whom joint swallowing is a routine practice.

because there is something beautiful in grief, isn't there? It's like mourning is your Chrysalis and when the time comes you'll be reborn as this beautiful butterfly.