I like being alone. The realisation that I am actually someone I am not proud of, actually slaps me in the face. I can ramble on about the best chocolate marshmallow ice cream I ever had, how army boys are the ones for me, how my fringe looks better down or up, or how I never want to say goodbye, and then I'd just go into my bathroom and bawl my eyes out. I want to be alone. But I leap at every bullshit opportunity to surround myself with more people. There's this empty hole in my chest; and I can almost hear it. Sometimes I'd think I am hungry, or that I need someone to talk to, maybe down cup after cup of malibu, but I'd do all that and this desolate hole under my rib cage would still be there. Right there at that spot, the spot where my heart is beating in a slow rhythmic pace. If I sat still and took a deep long breath I could grab it or touch it -- almost. But when I do that, I'd get scared like there was some big lie about to burst open.

Betty can’t quit carving question marks in my wrist.
"How come we’re so alone?"