I like to buy expensive things. If I wear something that costs more than a month’s salary, I amply feel that the rotting carcass of me is at least shrouded nicely.
Life was a game. It was fun when you were an active player.
Silas baked me a cake for my birthday. It was awful. I think he forgot the eggs. But it was the most beautiful chocolate failure I’ve ever seen. I was so happy that I didn’t even make a gag face when I ate a slice. But, oh god, it was so bad. Best boyfriend ever.
Beauty was deceiving in the same way credit cards were. It felt like it was free, but there was high interest with little return.
That’s how the truth works. If you avoid looking at it, you can pretend it’s not there.
The people who blind themselves to the truth. They’re just trying to survive.” I’m distracted for a minute, my finger suspended over the camera button on my phone. “Who wants to survive without truth?” Greer shrugs, and her shirt slips off her slender shoulder. Perfect. “Maybe people who have had too much of it. Or people who have had too little. Or people who are too shallow to appreciate its hard edges.
Instead, I clear my throat. “Oh yeah? You almost became a dad, Kit. That’s a scary life cocktail you’re mixing.” He’s quiet for a long time.
Groveling was a rite of passage. It’s where you got to look so pathetic no one would want you anyway, but you were sad enough to try.
I love it when you speak Harry Potter to me.
I always thought it was remarkable that the oyster coats its enemy not only in something beautiful, but a part of itself. And while diamonds are embraced with warm excitement, regarded to be of highest, deepest value, the pearl is somewhat overlooked. Its humble beginnings are that of a parasite, growing in something that is alive, draining its host of beauty. It’s clever – the plight of the splinter. A sort of rags to riches story.
Do you speak Parseltongue?” I ask. “What?” His face screws up.
You know, the first time I saw you in that bar it was as if someone plugged me into an electrical socket. Everything in my head lit up. I could have written ten songs, answered the age-long question about the meaning of love, and asked you to marry me on the spot.
We fight because we have things to fight about, it has nothing to do with the wine.
I feel slightly left behind; like I am waking from a coma and finding out the world moved on without me. Why do I still feel the same when everyone else is different?
Gin sort of made me crazy, but crazy was better than boring, and I was feeling wild around the edges.
I fell for it because most of us just really want to be wanted.
I started to feel the withdrawals right then and there. I’d replaced wanderlust with a human. That was a terrible mistake.
I’ve never been in love, not until her, and I never want to be again – it hurts. Love hurts in the way a toothache hurts: you can’t ignore it, and it’s always there throbbing and aching, reminding you... of what? I think desperately. What is it reminding you of? That you’re human. That you have weakness. That your weakness is another person.
As far as I was concerned children had bipolar disorder. They were angry, unpredictable, emotional ambulance-sirens with pigtails, grubby hands and food-crusted mouths that twisted from smiles to frowns and back again as quick as a breath. No, thank you very much. If I wanted a three-foot warlord as my master, I’d hire a rabid monkey to do the job.
That’s why you got married – to feel safe from all the men who were trying to siphon your soul. I’d yielded my soul to Caleb willingly. Offered it up like a sacrificial lamb.