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And we'll call you... hmmm. Pudge. Huh? Pudge, the Colonel said. Because you're skinny. It's called irony, Pudge. Heard of it? Now, let's go get some cigarettes and start this year off right.

John Green

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John Green
Age: 47
Born: 1977
Born: August 24
Author
Businessperson
Critic
Editor
Film Producer
Journalist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Podcaster
Singer
Indianapolis
Indiana
John Michael Green
Right
Skinny
Years
Cigarette
Irony
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Heard
Pudge
Call
Colonel
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Cigarettes

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the problem is not suffering itself or oblivion itself but the depraved meaninglessness of these things, the absolutely inhuman nihilism of suffering.
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He responded a few minutes later. Okay. I wrote back. Okay. He responded: Oh, my God, stop flirting with me!
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Not the brightest gem in the jewelry shop, but you've got to admire his single-minded dedication to drug abuse.
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Eternity bids thee to forget.
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And he was feeling not-unique in the very best possible way.
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If people could see me the way I see myself - if they could live in my memories - would anyone love me?
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Books are like tweets, except longer.
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That's absolutely true, about the eight glasses a day. There's no reason whatsoever to drink eight glasses of water a day unless you, for whatever reason, particularly like the taste of water. Most experts agree that unless there's something horribly wrong with you, you should just drink water whenever you're - get this - thirsty.
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You can’t know, sweetie, because you’ve never had a baby become a brilliant young reader with a side interest in horrible television shows, but the joy you bring us is so much greater than the sadness we feel about your illness.
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He took a long drink, then grimaced. “I do not have a drinking problem,” he announced, his voice needlessly loud. “I have a Churchillian relationship with alcohol: I can crack jokes and govern England and do anything I want to do. Except not drink.
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Hazel Grace,” he said. “Hi,” I said. “How are you?” “Grand,” he said. “I have been wanting to call you on a nearly minutely basis, but I have been waiting until I could form a coherent thought in re An Imperial Affliction.” (He said “in re.” He really did. That boy.)
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It looked like an old painting, but real - everything achingly idyllic in the morning light - and I thought about how wonderfully strange it would be to live in a place where almost everything had been built by the dead.
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Also, it was a bit hopeless, he said. A bit defeatist. If by defeatist you mean honest, then I agree. I don't think defeatism is honest, Dad answered. I refuse to accept that.
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I've never known before what it feels like to want someone - not to want to hook up with them or whatever, but to want them, to want them. And now I do. So maybe I do believe in epiphanies.
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He liked the idea of coffee quite a lot—a warm drink that gave you energy and had been for centuries associated with sophisticates and intellectuals. But coffee itself tasted to him like caffeinated stomach bile.
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One of the others shouted a translation: The beautiful couple is beautiful.
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I'm so proud of you that it makes me proud of me. I hope you know that.
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Cold one day, sweet the next irresistibly flirty one moment, resistibly obnoxious the next.
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