Girl scouts didn’t teach me what to do with emotionally unstable drunk boys.
I’m a little distracted by this English French American Boy Masterpiece.
I wish for the thing that is best for me.
Just because something isn’t practical doesn’t mean it’s not worth creating. Sometimes beauty and real-life magic are enough.
So what do I wish for? Something I’m not sure I want? Someone I’m not sure I need? Or someone I know I can’t have?
I don’t want to feel this way around him. I want things to be normal. I want to be his friend, not another stupid girl holding out for something that will never happen.
Seriously, I don’t know any American girl who can resist an English accent.
When it’s right, it’s simple.
How many times can our emotions be tied to someone else’s – be pulled and stretched and twisted – before they snap? Before they can never be mended again?
I moan with pleasure. “Did you just have a foodgasm?” he asks, wiping ricotta from his lips. “Where have you been all my life?” I ask the beautiful panini.
Madame Guillotine gets mad at me. Not because I told them to shove it, but because I didn’t say it in French. What is wrong with this school?
Sometimes a mistake isn’t a what. It’s a who.
And if I’m the stars, Cricket Bell is entire galaxies.
There are some people in life that you can’t get over.
People should say what they mean and not make other people stumble around.
Why do I care so much about him, and why do I wish I didn’t? How can one person make me so confused all of the time?
This is home. The two of us.
I don’t believe in fashion. I believe in costume. Life is too short to be same person every day.
Everyone makes mistakes. The important thing is to not make the same mistake twice.
I don’t understand why things always go from perfect to weird with us. It’s like we’re incapable of normal human interaction.