I still believe that one of the greatest advantages of college is that I’m officially allowed not to care about high school anymore.
I’m in crisis. I’m about to bump with a five-foot chino-chicano.
When you say too much about anything important, it always ends up sounding more trivial than it is. Words trash it.
The minute our correspondence becomes obligatory, there’s no point in keeping touch at all.
Words can be used as a bomb or balm.
I know it makes sense for me and him to just break up now and just live our separate lives and not have to worry about missing each other all the time. But when I think about that, I get sick. Physically sick. Like I seriously throw up. I need to be with him, even if I can’t, like, be with him.
Marcus Flutie slept with just about every girl on the Eastern Seaboard except me. Though, he tried to get into my panties when I was a freshman but turned him down because I refuse to disempower myself just for a few clit twitches.
You called me a natural con artist and asked me what other secrets I was hiding. I didn’t answer because I already knew, in some deep, primal way, what furtive truth you were referring to: That I was destined to fall in love with you.
That’s what all love comes down to, doesn’t it? We help others only as much as they let us.
So much of courtship is the unspoken.
See, my idea of cute comes with an IQ requirement. It’s geeky cute. It’s Rivers Cuomo, not Justin Timberlake. It’s Gideon Yago, not Brian Mcfayden. Jimmy Fallon, yes please! Brad Pitt, no thank you.
Even with the best intentions, growing apart might just be an inevitable part of growing up.
Where’s my syllabus to guide me through life?
I can let my true self shine in front of God.
Love may have the longest arms, but it can still fall short of an embrace.
They predicted sixteen years ago, almost before anyone else, that girls like me – prettier, smarter, healthier – would be the world’s most invaluable resource. And like any rare commodity in an unregulated marketplace, prices for our services would skyrocket. It wasn’t about the money, really, not at first. It was about status. Who had it, and who didn’t. And my parents did everything in their power to make sure I had it.
Actually, how I am a defensive pessimist. I always assume the worst, so if the reality is even a wee bit better than my disaster scenario, it’s a cause for celebration.
I’m about to ask when I remember something important: I don’t give a damn.
But democracy is alive and well, as long as there’s an open bar.
No, my scores didn’t reflect my superior intellect as much as they did my ability to memorize all the little tricks for acing the test. For me the SATs were a necessary annoyance, but not the big trauma that they are for most high-school students.