Iโ€™m not a romantic, Iโ€™m a half-wit. Only stupid people would think Iโ€™m smart. Iโ€™m not something anyone should know. Iโ€™m a lunatic wandering around for scraps, Iโ€™m like every single miserable moron Iโ€™ve scorned and pretended I didnโ€™t recognize. Iโ€™m all of them, every last ugly thing in a bad last-minute costume. Iโ€™m not different, not at all, not different from any other speck of a thing. Iโ€™m a blemished blemish, a ruined ruin, a stained wreck so failed I canโ€™t see what I used to be. โœจ Daniel Handler (2012). Why We Broke Up, p.196, Egmont UK

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