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.
Since I’ve known you, you’ve been spinning and spinning and spinning into all these various personas, and none of this self-exploration and experimentation has given you a sense of peace. I’ve known you for six years, intimately for four, and I still have no idea who I’m in love with.
The great thing about fiction is that you can start off by telling the truth, then start making stuff up like crazy whenever you feel like it.
The real world, whether we like it or not, is right here, right now. All of this, every day, is important. Everybody matters. Everything we do has an effect on other, directly or indirectly, whether we realize it or not.
I used to think that I wouldn’t change anything from my past, because doing so would inevitably affect who I am now. But considering my current state, I’m thinking it might not be a bad idea to go back in time to fix things.
All subjects are the same. I memorize notes for a test, spew it, ace it, then forget it. What makes this scary for the future of our country is that I’m in the tip-top percentile on every standardized test. I’m a model student with a very crappy attitude about learning.
And so I’ll let you go, and let it be. Whatever.
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.
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.