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| If the girl had been worth having, she'd have waited for you? No sir, the girl really worth having won't wait for anybody. -- He offered her the world. She said she had her own. -- I started to cry because this place is insane. And if I'm here, I must be insane too. feb 16 2013 ∞
jan 31 2015 + Here is the truth about September: it sneaks up on you and all of a sudden, it's autumn and you don't know what to do with your recently orphaned august daydreams. So you tuck them between the pages of brand new notebooks and leave them in the corners of your sweatshirt pocket to gather lint. And you set them on fire until all the trees are smoldering red and orange and yellow. sep 7 2012 ∞
jan 31 2015 + Sometimes suffering is just suffering. It doesn’t make you stronger. It doesn’t build character. It only hurts. -- There is not one person in this world that is not cripplingly sad about something. You remember that before you open your mouth. feb 16 2013 ∞
jan 31 2015 + |
"To the boy who left me and said he did it for my own good, Let me be honest. You have a very loving, supportive family, a beautiful dog, a best friend who'd literally take a bullet for you. You sing so well, you write like a dream, you have a pretty face, a killer smile. You're intelligent. Yes when you were little you were picked on. And more often than not, when it came to the good times, you were last pick. Yes, you were bullied, yes people hated you for no apparent reason; you were the kid that always got left behind even after having the purest heart. I get that. I do. But that was a phase and it passed. You grew up. It stays with you, that kind of depression and darkness -- but admit it: you can let it go but you don't want to. You've become used to it. It feels familiar, comfortable. You hated them so much, you became them. You don't bully people, b... jul 21 2016 ∞
jul 21 2016 + Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries, took the bus home, carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment and cooked myself dinner. You and I may have different definitions of a good day. This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill, worked 60 hours between my two jobs, only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks and slept like a rock. Flossed in the morning, locked my door, and remembered to buy eggs. 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 phon... jan 31 2015 ∞
feb 11 2015 + |
She had always wanted words, she loved them, grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape. Whereas I thought words bent emotions like sticks in water. Yes, Madox was a man who died because of nations. Death means you are in the third person. How did you hate me? she whispered. You killed almost everything in me. I shall have to learn how to miss you. Half my days I cannot bear not to touch you. The rest of the time I feel it doesn't matter if I ever see you again. It isn't the morality, it is how much you can bear. A man in a desert can hold absence in his cupped hands knowing it is something that feeds him more than water. He has been disassembled by her. And if she has brought him to this, what has he brought her to? dec 3 2012 ∞
jan 31 2015 + But I used to think there were some weeds that are just as beautiful as flowers. -- You've shot a lot of arrows, but did you shoot any birds? -- May your choices reflect your hopes, not your fears. aug 12 2013 ∞
jan 31 2015 + And all at once I knew how Margo Roth Spiegelman felt when she wasn't being Margo Roth Spiegelman: she felt empty. She felt the unscaleable wall surrounding her. I thought of her asleep on the carpet with only that jagged sliver of sky above her. Maybe Margo felt comfortable there because Margo the person lived like that all the time: in an abandoned room with blocked-out windows, the only light pouring in through holes in the roof. Yes. The fundamental mistake I had always made—and that she had, in fairness, always led me to make—was this: Margo was not a miracle. She was not an adventure. She was not a fine and precious thing. She was a girl. mar 11 2013 ∞
jan 31 2015 + |