Deep in her heart, she wasn't sure she deserved to be happy, nor did she believe that she was worthy of someone who seemed...normal.
The normal is that which nobody quite is. If you listen to seemingly dull people very closely, you'll see that they're all mad in different and interesting ways, and are merely struggling to hide it.
Some artists are normal people who just happen to make things because we can't figure out how in the hell to communicate with people.
The succession of thoughts appears in time, but the gap between two of them is outside time. The gap itself is normally unobserved. The chance of enlightenment is missed.
He is, or has been, in many ways a great man. But for this very reason he is odd. It is only petty men who seem normal.
My heart hated her, but my penis loved her. Taken together, I felt normal.
Don't wish to be normal. Wish to be yourself. To the hilt. Find out what you're best at, and develop it, and hopscotch your weaknesses. Wish to be great at whatever you are.
Glad you're back to normal. The makeup and the dress were a lot more intimidating than the dagger." "Get going, Sparky, before I skewer you." "Sparky?
I'm extra-good at wanting things. I want things until I feel sort of sick about them. I want enough for two normal people, at least.
I told her I hated normal people and the land of the fucking free and the home of the asshole brave, and I hated God and George and all and everything.
For once you yourself cease to take pleasure in the common enjoyments of life, you hate the normal man who is so much more fortunate than yourself.
Weerd is a weird way to write weird, but seemingly more normal than weird. Also, hate is a weird way to write love.
Something I'm not ready to name works itself under the grip of Charlies death and loosens it, and keeps the nightmare at bay when I fall back asleep.
I had them all fooled into believing I was normal and well-adjusted, a rock of sensibility who could always be counted on to have a positive attitude.
I felt that my life was permanently damaged, that I could never be normal again, that the rest of my life would just be a shell.
When your family is twice as weird as normal, you have to be twice as polite to authority, because authority hates weird.
The point is, Jenna, no one is normal or perfect like that house you see across the street. Everyone suffers from their own struggles, whether they’re big or small.
Death is another bar which lies several steps below the normal world. I'm at its threshold, but not yet in it. Its doorway is doorless.
One minute I was playing chess and doing maths all the time, the next I had been rerouted into more 'normal' girls' activities: reading, writing stories and worrying about my clothes.
Normally I’d run off in the other direction when faced with a man wearing what were essentially pyjamas to work, but this time... well, they matched my boxers.
It’s strange how things can change back as suddenly as they changed originally. When one thing happens and suddenly, things are back to normal.
