My wish right now is for me to die. I am nothing in the world compared to Tyler. I am helpless. I am stupid, and all I do is want and need things. My tiny life. My little shit job. My Swedish furniture. I never, no, never told anyone this, but before I met Tyler, I was planning to buy a dog and name it "Entourage." This is how bad your life can get. Kill me. I grab the steering wheel and crank us back into traffic. Now. Prepare to evacuate soul. Now. The mechanic wrestles the wheel toward the ditch, and I wrestle to fucking die. Now. The amazing miracle of death, when one second you're walking and talking, and the next second, you're an object. I am nothing, and not even that. Cold. Invisible.

"It's only after you've lost everything," Tyler says "that you're free to do anything."

"What you have to consider," he says, "is the possibility that God doesn't like you. Could be, God hates us. This is not the worst thing that can happen."

"....you are not how much money you have in the bank. You're not your job. You're not your family, and you're not who you tell yourself."....."You're not your name."...."You're not your problems."....."You're not your age."....."You are not your hopes."....."You will not be saved."....."We are all going to die someday."

A car passes us on the right with a bumper sticker saying, "I Drive Better When I'm Drunk." The newspaper says thousands of these bumper stickers just appeared on cars one morning. Other bumper stickers said things like "Make Mine Veal." "Drunk Drivers Against Mothers." "Recycle All the Animals."

"I am the all-singing, all-dancing crap of this world."...."I am the toxic waste by-product of God's creation."...."I am the shit and infectious human waste of creation."

On a long enough time line, everyone's survival rate drops to zero.

How everything you ever love will reject you or die. Everything you ever create will be thrown away. Everything you're proud of will end up as trash.

We are not special. We are not crap or trash either. We just are.