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But sometimes there’s nothing left to do but move on.

Jay Asher

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Jay Asher
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: September 30
Novelist
Writer
Arcadia
California
Left
Nothing
Sometimes
Move
Moving

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But you can't get away from yourself. You can't decide not to see yourself anymore. You can't decide to turn off the noise in your head.
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What you don't understand, you can make mean anything.
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You can't stop the future You can't rewind the past The only way to learn the secret ...is to press play.
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How many times had I let myself connect with someone only to have it thrown back in my face?
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You can hear rumors. But you can't know them.
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But I need to wake up somehow. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s best to get through the day half-asleep. Maybe that’s the only way to get through today.
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Because when you're posed, you know someone's watching. You put on your very best smile. You let your sweetest personality shine.
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And after I dropped him off, I took the longest possible route home... I explored alleys and hidden roads I never knew existed. I discovered neighborhoods entirely new to me. And finally... I discovered I was sick of this town and everything in it.
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I want to collapse. I want to fall on the sidewalk right there and drag myself to the ivy.
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What the hell happened to Pluto?!
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Fun drunks make a nice addition to any party. Not looking to fight. Not looking to score. Just looking to get drunk and laugh.
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That's why you did it. You wanted your world to collapse around you. You wanted everything to get as dark as possible.
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If I had a chance with him, I missed it. No, I didn't miss it. I threw it away.
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I repeat his words in my head. What's going on? What's going on? Oh, well, since you asked, I got a bunch of tapes in the mail today from a girl who killed herself. Apparently, I had something to do with it. I'm not sure what that is, so I was wondering if I could borrow your Walkman to find out. 'Not much,' I say.
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I’m sorry.” Once again, those were the words. And now, anytime someone says I’m sorry, I’m going to think of her.
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And what if in the future we're at war again, or we still haven't elected a non-white or non-male president, or the Rolling Stones are still dragging their tired old butts on stage? That would depress me way too much.
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He looks out into the empty street, allowing me to sit in his car and just miss her. To miss her each time I pull in a breath of air. To miss her with a heart that feels so cold by itself, but warm when thoughts of her flow through me.
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I needed a break... from myself.
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Because I've heard so many stories that I don't know which one is the most popular. But I do know which is the least popular. The truth.
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