Looking For Alaska

But stiiiilllll. Look at this, I hate it, I hate how it makes me feel, I hate that it makes me think about reality and scary things.
But then look at this, John Green is such a good writer that I can't resist.

She taught me everything I knew about crawfish and kissing and pink wine and poetry. She made me different.

I lit a cigarette and spit into the creek. "You can't make me different and then leave," I said out loud to her.

"Because I was fine before, Alaska. I was fine with just me and last words and school friends, and you can't just make me different and then die." For she had embodied the Great Perhaps—she had proved to me that it was worth it to leave behind my minor life for grander maybes, and now she was gone and with her my faith in perhaps.

He writes about feelings like that. Brilliant right? sigh