I’m foolishly self-conscious.

You need to get up, Finn. I’m not going to let you stay in here like this any longer. Cade’s waiting downstairs, and I exhausted all possible topics of conversation with him back when he was about twelve years old.

I suppose the things that transform your life don’t appear as you fancifully imagine they will.

People naturally believe things they see. Nobody argues with the irrefutable postings on YouTube.

When you think about it, the universe is nothing but this vast knackery of churning black holes and exploding stars, constantly free atoms that collect together and become something else, and something else again.

It was like watching my house catch fire, but I couldn’t look away, because how many times do you ever get to see a house burn down?

Expired condoms are like nuclear waste: there’s nothing sensible you can do with it.

I stomped to the door, which was dumb because nobody can hear teenagers stomping in space. What’s the point stopping if no one can hear you?

And then I wondered, does cussing count in the general scheme of things if you only cuss in your head and not out loud?

I was thinking. What if the world was like one of those Russian nesting dolls? What if we only saw one surface of it, the outside, but there was all kinds of other stuff going on, too? All the time. Underneath. But we just don’t see it, even if we’re part of it? Even if we’re in it? And what if you had a chance to see a different layer, like flipping a channel or something? Would you want to look? Even if what you saw looked like hell? Or worse?