What’s your damage?
I love my dead, gay son.
Grow up, Heather. Bulimia is so ‘8
Why be a marshmallow when you can be the fire?
Chaos doesn’t happen when things are calm.
People will believe anything if it’s whispered with authority.
Veronica, why are you pulling my dick?
I may be an idiot, but I’m not a greedy idiot.
Our love is like the wind; I can’t see it but I can feel it.
Screw with the wrong people.
Life sucks, and then you die.
If you were happy every day of your life, you wouldn’t be a human being. You’d be a game-show host.
Stabbing is so last season.
People will look at the ashes of Westerburg and say, ‘Now there’s a school that self-destructed, not because society didn’t care, but because the school was society.’
You invent yourself, and then reinvent yourself.
Dear diary, my teen angst bullshit has a body count.
Whether to kill yourself or not is one of the most important decisions a teenager can make.
The only place different social types can genuinely get along with each other is in heaven.
Like my masseur said, ‘If you’re not on the list, you’re not coming in.’
You know, I have a really high tolerance for idiots.
Life is beautiful. Suicide is stupid.
Real life sucks losers dry.
Color me impressed.
It’s just like therapy, only it’s cheaper and you don’t need an appointment.
You treat me like an adult and I’ll act like one.
Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast?
I’m not a nice person. You might think I am, but I’m not.
You can’t just die. You have to try something first.
You know what I love about you, J.D.? You look like a doofus.
I prayed for the death of Heather Chandler many times, and I felt bad every time I did it, but I kept doing it anyway. Now I know you understood everything.
The society I live in is a neoplastic phenomenon, and I will not participate in it.
Dear diary, list of truths:
Heather Chandler is a bitch.
Heather Duke is a bitch.
You wanted to be a member of the most powerful clique at Westerburg. What would you be willing to do to get in?
If you don’t watch it, you’re going to be just another brainwashed broad with a cold sore.
Fifteen. No excuse.
It’s like they all know this party is about to turn ugly but they’re still fighting to be the last rat off a sinking ship. Suckers.
Convenience — that’s what you want. You don’t want the truth. And sometimes, we’d rather kill ourselves than face the sound of the truth.
Since when do the cheerleaders play with the band?
My son’s a homosexual, and I love him. I love my dead gay son.
Our love is meant to be. It’s written in the stars.
Teenage suicide, don’t do it.
It’s one thing you coming backstage and screwing these guys and Patty and Donald Duck. That was just your standard operating bullshit. but when you fuck Veronica, that’s like spreading peanut butter on the back of an already chewed piece of gum.
Lick it up, baby. Lick. It. Up.
Dear diary, I want to kill, and you have to believe it’s for more than just selfish reasons. More than just a spoke in my menstrual cycle.
I have superior firepower.
They say just being close to someone you love can be heaven, and all I can think about is how much more space I’m going to need.
We had the chance to change the world, but the price of that change was too high.
The only society decent people can depend on is never everyone.
I may do it somewhere else, but when I walk in these halls, I pay tuition! Let’s turn on the TV.
You’re beautiful. We’re all beautiful.
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