She Never Inquired, But She

Nothing Really Mattered, And Nothing Could Be Lost.

This Pain, This Dying, This Is Just Normal. This Is How Life Is. In Fact, I Realize, There Never Was An Earthquake. Life Is Just This Way, Broken, And I Am Crazy For Dreaming Of Something Else.

Very Few Women Have Become Famous For Being Who They Actually Are, Nuanced And Imperfect. When Honesty Happens, It's Usually Couched In Self-ridicule Or Self-help. Dunham Doesn't Apologize Like That-she Simply Tells Her Story As If It Might Be Interesting. The Result Is Shocking And Radical Because It Is Utterly Familiar. Not That Kind Of Girl Is Hilarious, Artful, And Staggeringly Intimate; I Read It Shivering With Recognition.

We Humans Are Here Because Nothing Can Be Perfect. There Always Have To Be Some Living Things That Are Unsatisfied, Itchy, Trying Too Hard. If It Was All Just Animals And Rocks And Lettuce, The Gods Wouldn't Feel Like They Had Enough To Do.

If There Were A Map Of The Solar System, But Instead Of Stars It Showed People And Their Degrees Of Separation, My Star Would Be The One You Had To Travel The Most Light-years From To Get To His. You Would Die Getting To Him.