I consider myself very sentimental, very sensitive, but obviously my outward appearance is a bit scruffy-haired, and I have a general tendency toward snarling at people, and a sort of misanthropic nature. Maybe that is what people actually read. I do actually believe that misanthropy and sensitivity go hand in hand, because I have a tremendous disappointment in the ways of the world.

You could say that I am desperate — because I am. In a world that both desexualizes and hypersexualizes transfeminine people and treats us like street garbage, I am desperate to find companionship and touch.

"I feared so-you're sentimental. You're not like me. I'm a romantic little materialist."

"I'm not sentimental-I'm as romantic as you are. The idea, you know, is that the sentimental person thinks things will last-the romantic person has a desperate confidence that they won't."

:I'm sensitive, y'know, I'm a—

I feel like getting married, or committing suicide, or subscribing to L'Illustration. Something desperate, you know.

I'm a romantic; a sentimental person thinks things will last, a romantic person hopes against hope that they won't.

I guess I'm pretty emotional.

I was sentimental about many things: a woman’s shoes under the bed; one hairpin left behind on the dresser; the way they said, 'I’m going to pee.' hair ribbons; walking down the boulevard with them at 1:30 in the afternoon, just two people walking together; the long nights of drinking and smoking; talking; the arguments; thinking of suicide; eating together and feeling good; the jokes; the laughter out of nowhere; feeling miracles in the air; being in a parked car together; comparing past loves at 3am; being told you snore; hearing her snore; mothers, daughters, sons, cats, dogs; sometimes death and sometimes divorce; but always carring on, always seeing it through; reading a newspaper alone in a sandwich joint and feeling nausea because she’s now married to a dentist with an I.Q. of 95; racetracks, parks, park picnics; even jails; her dull friends; your dull friends; your drinking, her dancing; your flirting, her flirting; her pills, your fucking on the side and her doing the same; sleeping together

I do have a heart, you see. I’ve got plenty of heart. I’m a fucking sentimental guy – once you get to know me. Show me a hurt puppy, or a long-distance telephone service commercial, or a film retrospective of Ali fights or Lou Gehrig’s last speech and I’ll weep real tears. I am a bastard, when crossed, though, no question.

I’m not sentimental about anything. Life flows by, and you flow with it or you don’t. Move on and move out.

I am hugely insecure and desperate to be loved and I want my reader to adore me, to a disturbing, stalkerish degree.

Peter would think her sentimental. So she was. For she had come to feel that it was the only thing worth saying – what one felt. Cleverness was silly. One must say simply what one felt.

Pardon me, if I'm sentimental When we say goodbye , Don't be angry with me should I cry. When you're gone, yet I'll dream A little dream as years go by… Now and then there's a fool such as I.

-Me temo que no es tan sencillo. Haces demasiado caso de tu propio sentimentalismo y de tu descontento por no ser capaz de morir.