Quotes About Loneliness

I am not loved. I am not a beautiful soul. I am not a good-natured, giving person. I am not anybody's savior.

you ever been trapped in a world where you're everyone's worst nightmare?

It's easy to cry when you realize that everyone you love will reject you or die. (Narrator)

In a city this size, every year, hundreds of husbands walk away. Kids leave home. Wives escape. People disappear.

Why is it you feel like a dope if you laugh alone, but that's usually how you end up crying? How is it you can keep mutating and still be the same deadly virus?

If you ask me, people in hell just scream to hear their own voice and to pass time.

All I want is somebody to ask me what happened. Then, I'll get on with my life.

How I feel is cheap and used, dirty and humiliated. Dirty and tricked and thrown away.

I am helpless. I am stupid, and all I do is want and need things. My tiny life. My little shit job. My Swedish furniture. I never, no, never told anyone this, but before I met Tyler, I was planning to buy a dog and name it Entourage. This is how bad your life can get.

Even if I overcompensate, nobody will ever want me. Not Seth. Not my folks. You can't kiss someone who has no lips. Oh, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me. I'll be anybody you want me to be.

These old people. These human ruins.

Pretty much nobody is getting their emotional needs met.

My biggest gripe is still hope. In hell, hope is a really really bad habit. Like smoking cigarettes or fingernail biting. Hope is something really tough and tenacious you have to give up. It's an addiction to break. Yes, I know the word tenacious. I'm 13 and disillusioned. And a little lonely.

Still screaming. As if the stars give a shit.

You could choke on the silence.

You're that tree falling in the forest that nobody gives a rat's ass about.

Nobody cared if he lived or died, and the feeling was fucking mutual.

Ev­ery­one else I could call is dead.

If you won't share my life with me, maybe you'll share my death.

Me, I'm a bloody tissue sample dried on a bare mattress in my room at the Paper Street Soap Company.

With the elevator stopped between floors, my view is about a cockroach above the green linoleum, and from here at cockroach level the green corridor stretches toward the vanishing point, past half-open doors where titans and their gigantic wives drink barrels of champagne and bellow to each other wearing diamonds bigger than I feel.

The truth is you can be orphaned again and again.

The truth is there's always been someone to tell me what to do. The church. The people who I work for. The caseworker. And I can't stand the idea of being alone. I can't bear the thought of being free. Survivor

Suicide Is the Ultimate Act of Consumption.