It wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t love.
It’s funny how when somebody saves you, the first thing you want to do is save other people. All other people. Everybody.
The French philosopher Jacques Derrida likens writing fiction to a software code that operates in the hardware of your mind. Stringing together separate macros that, combined, will create a reaction.
This was freedom. Losing all hope was freedom. If I didn’t say anything, people in a group assumed the worst. They cried harder. I cried harder. Look up into the stars and you’re gone.
And since God can’t control us, all God does is watch and change channels when He gets bored.
At the store, they have one-hundred-percent-recycled toilet paper,” Marla says. “The worst job in the whole world must be recycling toilet paper.
The things you own, end up owning you.
With all of the seats empty, you could pretend everyone’s just gone to the bathroom.
At home, you’ll sometimes wake up in your dark bed with the terror you’ve fallen asleep in the booth and missed a changeover.
Every takeoff and landing, when the plane banked too much to one side, I prayed for a crash.
We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.
It’s so hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to remember sweetness.
You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everyone else, and we are all a part of the same compost pile.
Are these things really better than the things I already have? Or am I just trained to be dissatisfied with what I have now? Am I just under a spell that says nothing is ever good enough?
What I’m talking about is free will. Do we have it, or does God dictate and script everything we do and say and want? Do we have free will, or do the mass media and our culture control us, our desires and actions, from the moment we’re born?
Every garden looks beautiful in May.′ Meaning: Everyone is somewhat attractive when she’s young.
You just don’t expect to meet dead people.
I don’t know who to believe, all I know is my feathers are on fire.
It’s a hundred generations removed from anything original, but the truth is aren’t we all?
Because sponges never have a bad day.