phrases, quotes i enjoy. but even longer

• My mother is proud of me. It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course. She doesn’t combat topics like, "My daughter got into Yale” with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs” But she is proud. See, she remembers what came before this. The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles, how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks. She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide. These were the bad days.
• You call him Apollo because he is the brightest light; your world is so dark, so cold and you are always trying to fill it but the warmth of that red nectar is sickly and never enough compared to just one touch of his skin. You are deep in an empty tunnel but even his coarsest words are candles to drag you through; you know you are far past lost yet somehow he is still your compass and you follow him loyally to a fate you long saw coming. You call him Apollo because he is truth and he is prophecy and when darkness swallows you you worship at his altar.
• being mentally ill + suicidal at a young age (before 18) is. strange, because you grow up with this idea that one day you’ll finally snap, turn off, be brave enough to kill yourself, so you don’t really plan for the future. adulthood- further life, it isn’t for you, nor do you feel included within the future of it. it isn’t… it isn’t part of your life plan. and then before you know it you’re 18 and you’re an adult but you never thought you’d get this far and sure it’s great that you’re still alive you guess but also. you feel so alone + lost in a world you never expected or planned to be a part of.
• If this theory holds, well, by the law of averages, there had to be one universe — just this one — where we don’t end up together. Here and now just happens to be it. If you think of it this way, nothing is our fault. So see, that explains everything. We’re not together anymore because of the multiverse. Well, isn’t that comforting? If you’re sad, do like I do and just think of the other ‘verses. The ones where I believe in love and where I don’t hate myself and where I never feel the need to kamikaze relationships. A universe where we can have nice things. It’s helpful, right? Because you could have loved me forever. And maybe in another universe, I let you
• do you ever think about all the people who you might have fallen in love with if only you'd taken a different way home or stood a little longer in the bread aisle at the supermarket? all the people who might have been an integral part of your life but instead you'll never know them. the unimaginable impact that our mundane choices have on our lives really gets to me. think of how many times i might have died if i made different choices. maybe i'd be homeless. maybe i'd be famous. maybe i'd be rich. sometimes I'm so overwhelmed by the impact of my choices that i cant choose anything at all because I'm afraid today will be the day that i make a choice that changes everything
• (as) i've begun to learn who you are, and how (deep) your soul is, (as) i've begun to notice how perfect you are for me, each hour i long for the (the) moment where i may finally be by your side. like the blueness of the (ocean is) constant, so are the thoughts (between) each second that posses your name. i cannot think of a world where an (us) does not exist because i've become (so) attached to the idea of always being yours. (is) it bad? is it good? that (my) heart is forever set on you? sometimes it's difficult to tell. i (love) days like today when the sun is out and my mind is clear like the sky, i just wish you were here to enjoy it. i will wait however long it takes (for) that day to come because i've never known anyone as breathtaking as (you)
• THEORIES ABOUT THE UNIVERSE. I am trying to see things in perspective. My dog wants a bite of my peanut butter chocolate chip bagel. I know she cannot have this, because chocolate makes dogs very sick. My dog does not understand this. She pouts and wraps herself around my leg like a scarf and purrs and tries to convince me to give her just a tiny bit. When I do not give in, she eventually gives up and lays in the corner, under the piano, drooping and sad. I hope the universe has my best interest in mind like I have my dogs. When I want something with my whole being, and the universe withholds it from me, I hope the universe thinks to herself: “Silly girl. She thinks this is what she wants, but she does not understand how it will hurt.”
• and there's always this pain in my chest, like there's always something at the back of my throat, there's something always there hiding behind the nothingness. and im noticing things more and more. just, like, you know. things. like how feelings are really just abstract ideas; they're not tangible and you can't touch them. You can't feel feelings, but at the same time you can feel them. You can't touch them but it feels oh, so fucking real to you. Like sadness, and depression, and fear are all just abstract ideas that other people can't even really see-- so why do I still feel all these things all at once? And why does it hurt so fucking bad? It feels like someone is slowly sliding a knife through my chest, and I have to go about my day and pretend like I'm not slowly dying.
• I. i wish it was 5 o'clock in the morning and nobody else is awake and i slip on my shoes without socks and i step outside, and the birds have just started to sing and a clear, cool blue light is spreading all over everything and i feel like a shadow of the girl who is still sleeping upstairs II. i'm tired of waking up with the sun. i hate that i am only human because nature says so. if it wasn't so cold i'd be out there right now, wiggling my fingers and toes and sighing at the stars and contemplating my own insignificance IV. sometimes i dream about people i've never met. maybe they'll somehow crawl in through my nose and ears and mouth and settle in my head. and i wish they could stay for a while, tell me a tale of their time on this world because everyone's stories seem sweeter than mine
• It was so crowded on the bus today i couldn’t even move without hitting someone with my backpack and i was worried that someone will read my stupid texts over my shoulder because when we stopped at the hospital i saw a woman get on and she was holding a pamphlet and i could read it and it listed possible breast cancer treatments and her hands quivered. maybe it was with fear because she read with a furious urgency and the veins in her hands bulged harshly as she read doctor’s words that could change the rest of her life; that could leave her dead. she could have been alone on that crowded bus; veins aflame with anxiety and fear which she couldn’t even show and she could have been screaming inside while she tore her iron skin. and i was worried about someone reading my texts
• Well, he got drunk one night and he went out to this field, you know? It was this big field – I think it used to be a farm or something – and he laid down with a bottle of scotch and he just looked at the stars for a while. I don’t know if it was because he had a lot on his mind or like… I don’t know, maybe it was all that fucking scotch he was drinking, but he looked at the stars and he said it was like feeling her there – his wife I mean – he said looking at the stars was like looking at her and it was like feeling the weight of the entire world crashing down on him and filling him up. And he was so empty before. He said he felt like a shell just walking around with a bottle in his right hand going through the motions of a life that held no meaning but lying under the stars filled him up and he felt full but it wasn’t heavy…
• from eternal sunshine of the spotless mind: well i came back downstairs and you were gone / i walked out, i walked out the door / why? / i don’t know. i felt like a scared little kid. i was like - it was above my head. i don’t know / you were scared? / yeah. thought you knew that about me / was it something i said? / yeah. you said, “so go”... with such disdain, you know? / oh i’m sorry / it’s okay
• i like sunsets that light the sky on fire and i like knowing birds are so delicate they can sit upon wires and i like ice cream that’s a little bit soft and i like the smell of sheets that are freshly washed and i like clouds that look like boats or planes or kittens with yarn and i like wearing my favorite pants even after they’re torn and i like when everything works out at the end of the movie and i like seeing nature that doesn’t know its own beauty and i like the people who smile instantly when our eyes meet and i like my coffee a little bit bitter because it makes the sugar so sweet and i like falling asleep as soon as my body touches the bed and i like tiny light kisses on the top of my head and i like feeling my heart try to push itself out of my body when something is exciting and new but most of all you you you i like you i really like you
• I know you’ve been finding it hard to breathe lately. You’ve been watching the weather, and reading the late night news, but you’re still pretty damn sure all the biggest wars are in your belly and all the most violent storms are in your head. You used to be soft, darlin’. You used to believe in truth. You were all rounded edges and loud, beating hearts. You were wet, glistening eyes and damp cheeks. But you were love. Winter was the first thing to crack you, and we both stared in horror at the first fissure that ran across your chest. Broke, break, broken, breaking. Then the rain came. And it rained and it rained, and you cracked wider and wider, and the water seeped under your skin along with all those murky, dark thoughts. And I swear to god, love, I broke my knuckles trying to bail out all your aching. But it wasn’t enough. You were already ten feet under, and I was an army wife just waiting for the knock on the door.
• The teacher asked once what did we talk about when we talked about happiness. And then one student said that happiness is what happens when you go to bed on the hottest night of the summer, a night so hot you can’t even wear a tee-shirt and you sleep on top of the sheets instead of under them, although try to sleep is probably the most accurate. And then at some point late, late, late at night, say just a bit before dawn, the heat finally breaks and the night turns cool and when you briefly wake up, you notice that you’re almost chilly, and in your groggy, half-consciousness, you reach over and pull the sheet around you and just that flimsy sheet makes it warm enough and you drift back off into a deep sleep. And it’s that reaching, that gesture, that reflex we have to pull what’s warm- whether it’s something or someone- towards us, that feeling we get when we do that, that feeling of being safe in the world and ready for sleep, that’s happiness.
• the moment when a person’s voice shifts from anger to sadness is truly the most heartbreaking sound. one minute they’ll be spitting names, cleverly digging into another one’s mind, saying things, breaking and ruining and destroying that person without lifting a hand. their voice filled with fire and hatred, so lout it all becomes a slur of high-pitched screams. and then in an instant, that raging voice cracks. the words tilt. stacked, boiled up resentment towards the world, people, their life, past, future, suddenly spins around and points straight to them. and you hear it. which is the worst part. that one small break in their voice reveals the deepest most darkest parts of them. what they want to keep hidden. it reveals more than any words can. could ever. it makes them sound ten times younger and fifty times more vulnerable. but before a tear could slip out, exposing their covert sadness; anger welcome up behind, swallowing anything else but pure hatred
• You want to know what I think people are like? Think about a whiteboard. When you’re born, you’re just like a little whiteboard – and people pick up their pens and teach you things and write their ideas and opinions all over you, and those opinions kind of become yours, because it’s all you know. Most of them come from your parents, because let’s face it, who else do you hang out with when you’re a baby? Then, you start to grow up. You go to school, you make friends. You learn new things from new people, and your opinions change, and it’s like someone wipes a little bit of the whiteboard clean and writes something else there instead. Do you understand what I’m talking about, Louis? It’s like your parents have taken your whiteboard and scribbled all over it in permanent marker, so it’ll take a hell of a lot of scrubbing to get it off. You’ve grown used to their ideas and their feelings so that everything they’ve written is fixated in your head. But it’s not unfixable, you know. The writing’s smudging already. Before long you’ll have your own ideas starting to leak through… (the whiteboard theory)
• It’s ok friend. I think most ppl feel like that at some point. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with u. It’s just the fact that you see yourself more than anyone else and you constantly inhabit the same body your whole life. After awhile, naturally you will start to dislike certain things or find aspects that you wish were different. If you spend too much time in your head, you sometimes start to believe in things that aren’t true. If somebody doesn’t talk to you for an entire day, you may assume they hate you or don’t care. But at the same time, maybe they’re waiting for you to talk to them, feeling the same way. A lot of things aren’t as bad as we can make them seem. I am obsessed with perfectionism and I spend a lot of my time regretting & overthinking things when it’s truly a waste of time. You will never be satisfied with anything until you learn to be happy with what you have in front of you!! Work on letting go of stuff you can’t change…focus on what you can realistically improve or what you feel a purpose for!! Don’t assume the worst and don’t trust the negative thoughts u have about yourself. lt’s ok to change but make sure you consider the reasons and if it’s something you think is good for you & will make you happier. A lot of the time it’s more about changing ur thoughts than anything else. Simplicity is important. Getting better doesn’t have to be a complex process if u don’t make it that way!! It’s a bit weird or difficult for me to give advice sometimes bc there are many problems I’m still working on myself, but as long as u try and know it’s possible to feel different, that’s a huge step. U good
• crying isn’t pretty. i don’t care who the fuck wrote it as roses blossoming from your tired eyes, or waterfalls slowly descending from your tear ducts. crying isn’t something that makes you feel like the words of a sonnet. no, crying isn’t fucking pretty. i saw the girl I love cry once and her mouth twisted into a snarl, like a dog about to bite. snot ran down her nose, along the curve of her lip and onto the pillow of my bed. i had just washed my sheets that day. her face scrunched up like she had just been punched in the stomach and her hands balled into little fists like she was waiting to punch them back. but she couldn’t. she didn’t. she just cried and i watched how her mascara started to smear down her cheeks, in long black trails that reminded me of mud dragged into the house from the bottoms of your shoes. i saw the girl i love cry so hard her shoulders shook like there was an earthquake but nobody else was under the doorframe waiting for the roof to cave in. she sobbed so hard that her breathing was ragged; a knife in between her ribcage, a blockage in her throat. she cried until she made no noise, but still her mouth moved like a fish pulled out the water and left there to hang in its oxygen hell. her face got all red and blotchy and i could have sworn i had seen a painting that looked almost like she did, in that moment. but crying isn’t pretty. no, it’s not supposed to be. she told me her chest was hurting and her head was aching and she felt so real to me. with her hair scattered in all directions, and train tracks in black lines crawling down her face, she was so real and she was so beautiful and she was in so much pain but she looked at me and smiled anyways. no, crying is not pretty but I knew right then i would be so lucky to be the one to cry at our wedding.

。・゜☆゜・。。・゜☆ ゜・。。・゜☆ ゜・。

To Boddah

Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand. All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, the ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community has proven to be very true. I haven’t felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things. For example when we’re backstage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowd begins, it doesn’t affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seem to love, relish in the love and adoration from the crowd, which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can’t fool you, any one of you. It simply isn’t fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I’m having 100% fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I’ve tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do, God believe me I do, but it’s not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. I must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they’re gone. I’m too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasm I once had as a child. On our last 3 tours, I’ve had a much better appreciation for all the people I’ve known personally and as fans of our music, but I still can’t get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There’s good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man. Why don’t you just enjoy it? I don’t know! I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point where I can barely function. I can’t stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I’ve become. I have it good, very good, and I’m grateful, but since the age of seven, I’ve become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along and have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess. Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I’m too much of an erratic, moody, baby! I don’t have the passion anymore, and so remember, it’s better to burn out then to fade away. Peace, Love, Empathy. Kurt Cobain. Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your altar. Please keep going Courtney, for Frances. for her life will be so much happier without me. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU

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A Thousand Kisses.

Da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille altera, dein secunda centum, deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum. / Dein, cum milia multa fecerimus, conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus, aut ne quis malus invidere possit, cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.

Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred… then another thousand… then a second hundred… then yet another thousand more… then another hundred. / Then, when we have made many thousands, we will mix them all up so that we don't know, and so that no one can be jealous of us when he finds out how many kisses we have shared

。・゜☆゜・。。・゜☆ ゜・。。・゜☆ ゜・。

Eleven.

What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are — underneath the year that makes you eleven. Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three. Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is. You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is. Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth. "Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month." "Not mine," says everybody. "Not me." "It has to belong to somebody," Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so. Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe because she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater like that, all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out. "That's not, I don't , you’re not...Not mine," I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four. "Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not. Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you. But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine. In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the school yard fence, or even leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody , "Now Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't' care. "Rachel," Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense." "But it's not--" "Now!" Mrs. Price says. This is when I wish I wasn't eleven, because all the years inside of me-- ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two and one-- are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine. That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I’m eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me, until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast. But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay. Today I'm eleven. There's cake Mama's making for tonight, and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it's too late. I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny-tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.