Best 29 quotes of Katja Millay on MyQuotes

And maybe I’m a liar and I do need it, because being kissed by Josh Bennett is kind of like being saved. It’s a promise and a memory of the future and a book of better stories. When he stops, I’m still here, and he’s still looking at me like he can’t believe I am, and I want to keep that look forever. “Emilia,” he says, and when he does, it warms me to my soul. “Every day you save me.

As if there's a playbook for surviving hell.

But you can only go so long being angry before you learn to hate.

Every normal family is one tragedy away from complete implosion.

I decline the coffee. I don't drink it, because no matter how much sugar I put into it, it still tastes like ass-water to me. Maybe it's because my taste buds are so desensitized to sweet that anything not comprised of at least ninety percent sugar tastes wrong

I didn't belong in this world anymore. It's not that I wanted to be dead, I just felt like I should be.

I don't do hugging. I don't like people touching me ever when there's no treat involved. It's too intimate and it bothers me.

I doubt taking in a sullen, bitter, teenage girl with more issues than National Geographic is at the center of the vision board for a single woman in her early thirties.

I'd watch her, amazed at just how much a person could accomplish fueled by tea and regret.

I feel like grabbing my crotch and checking to see if my balls are still there because I think they may be in her pocket and I need to get them back.

I hate my left hand. I hate to look at it. I hate it when it stutters and trembles and reminds me that my identity is gone. But I look at it anyway; because it also reminds me that I'm going to find the boy who took everything away from me. I'm going to kill the boy who killed me, and when I kill him, I'm going to do it with my left hand.

I live in a world without magic or miracles. A place where there are no clairvoyants of shapeshifters, no angels or superhuman boys to save you. A place where people die and music disintegrates and things suck. I am pressed so hard against the earth by the weight of reality that some days I wonder how I am still able to lift my feet and walk.

I live in a world without magic or miracles. A place where there are no clairvoyants or shapeshifters, no angels or superhuman boys to save you. A place where people die and music disintegrates and things suck. I am pressed so hard against the earth by the weight of reality that some days I wonder how I am still able to lift my feet to walk.

I'm tired of being responsible for other people's misery. I can't even put up with my own.

I really shouldn't be judging him on normalcy, especially when I'm watching him from the confines of my own, very precarious glass house.

I stayed in therapy long enough to know that nothing that happened to me was my fault. I didn't do anything to invite it or deserve it. But that just makes it worse. Maybe I don't blame myself for what happened, but when they tell you that something was completely and utterly random, they're also telling you something else. That nothing you do matters. It doesn't matter if you do everything right, if you dress the right way and act the right way and follow all the rules, because evil will find you anyway. Evil's resourceful that way. ... They tell you it was random to make you feel blameless. But all I hear them telling me is that I have no control, and if I have no control, then I'm powerless. I would have preferred being blamed.

I think I’ll stay in pieces. I can shift them, rearrange, depending on the day, depending on what I need to be. I can change on a whim and be so many different girls and none of them has to be me.

I will never forget what you did to me. I will never forgive it. I will never stop mourning what you stole from me. But I realize now I can't steal it back and I'm done spending every day trying to.

I wish I could have saved you," he says finally. And this is what it always comes back to. Salvation. Him saving me. Me saving him. Impossibilities, because there is no such thing, and it's not what we ever needed from each other anyway.

I wonder if there is a person on Earth who is consoled by a casserole.

My parents needed to believe I was okay, so for a long time I tried to convince them that I was. I tried to convince myself, too, but I was a much tougher sell because I knew the truth. I was so very not okey. I realized that I was going to feel shitty either way. I was probably going to feel shitty for the rest of my life. A life I should not even still be living. A life that should have let me go. So I got angry. Then I got very angry. Then I got angrier still. But you can only go so long being angry before you learn to hate. I stopped feeling so sorry for myself and started hating instead. Whining was pathetic, but hate got things done.

My phone is on my bed, whispering in my ear like a bottle of scotch to a recovering alcoholic, while the rain continues cackling at me through my window.

People who go around advertising their birthday are douchebags.

People who have never been through any sort of shit always assume that they know how you should react to having your life destroyed. And the people who have been through shit think you're suppose to deal with it the exact same way they did. As if there's a playbook for surviving hell.

Plus, once he did the requisite double-take and recognized me, he’d probably beat the crap out of any guy who looked at me in all my Snow White meets Frederick’s of Hollywood glory.

She's grateful for what she was born with. She should be. It's an awesome face, a perfect face, an ethereal face. The kind people write songs and poems and suicide notes about. It's that exotic kind of beauty that men in romance novels obsess over, even if they have no idea who you are, because they must possess you. That kind of beauty.

Te dicen que fue algo fortuito para que no te culpes. Pero lo único que oigo es a ellos diciéndome que no tengo control, y si no tengo control, entonces estoy indefensa.

What did you see when you died?" He has that tenative half smile, like he's almost embarrassed by what he's saying. "Because I'm guessing it wasn't the Sea of Tranquility." And when I look at him, I'm not so sure it wasn't. “Where did you go?" His voice drops just slightly and loses even the suggestion of a smile. He's watching me like he's not sure he's allowed to ask the question, and he's not even sure he wants the answer. I can almost see his grandfather's words and Josh's doubts about them swimming in his head. On every side of me are the lights and the tools and the wood and the boots and the boy I want to see forever. And if the my Sea of Tranquility were real, it would be this place, here, with him. I don't say anything right away, because I just want one minute to look at his face before I give him my last secret. And then I tell him. "Your garage.

Your name could mean to excel and you could be useless and crap at everything. You can put a name on anything, call it whatever you want, doesn’t make it real. Doesn’t make it true.