The fact of the matter is that you should really stop concerning yourself with writing a book because anyone can write a book that totally sucks. There is nothing special about that.
It may be a man’s world, but men are easily controlled by women.
If you’re going to do something, strive to do it better than anyone else. Do it all the way. If you’re going to half-ass it, why bother?
There is nothing wrong with revenge. The wrong has already been done, or there would be no need to even the score.
You have to believe what you’re saying if you’re going to convince me. I just can’t break that rule, even if I want to.
A selfless act out of even the purest desire to do for others, will be selfish in the satisfaction and happiness it brings to one doing it.
Two wrongs don’t make a right, but neither does one. Revenge may seem petty by day, but on some nights she becomes Justice.
It’s okay to disagree with the thoughts or opinions expressed by other people. That doesn’t give you the right to deny any sense they might make. Nor does it give you a right to accuse someone of poorly expressing their beliefs just because you don’t like what they are saying. Learn to recognize good writing when you read it, even if it means overcoming your pride and opening your mind beyond what is comfortable.
There is nothing worse than having an enemy who is a total loser. It’s incredibly frustrating when seeking revenge against one, because you come to the realization that there is really nothing you can do to make the person’s life worse than it already is. They have nothing to take, there is no way to screw them over if you have been their victim. It’s maddening.
My sadness is beautiful. It infuses everything I do. It is at the core of my identity and always has been, just as happiness is in some people. I refuse to be told that it’s a flaw. I will not mute it with medications for the sake of society. I will hold it close to me and celebrate it rightfully while the rest of the world fails to see it for what it is and it will be their loss.
Don’t be scared of scars. They just tell stories that are hard to hear.
The next time you wish you could find the right words to say to someone who is hurting, just remember that dogs are a man’s best friend without ever speaking a word to them. Simply be present and have sympathy.
Some people are as angry as they seem to be only because it’s the safest place to hide from more pain.
If you’re not scared of the dark, it hasn’t been dark enough.
I know that my grandmother certainly did nothing to warrant my mother stealing all of her jewelry that my grandfather had given her as gifts over the years, just so she could peddle it for heroin on the street. Those were precious metals and gems that could never be replaced, and each one had a story behind it. A love story between my grandparents, that my mother flushed down a proverbial toilet so that she could shoot up, throw up and pass out.
My mother was obviously never there to take the blame she deserved. She left me to absorb it all in her place. She was far too busy in her own world, that incidentally revolved around herself. I’m pretty sure she dated a new guy every few months for most of my childhood. Some would last longer and show up again later after disappearing for a while, like the last day of a cold or flu before you start feeling better.
It took me years to stop feeling the guilt she made sure I kept feeling about what happened with him. He is a sick person that molests children, but I felt so bad about it for so long. I couldn’t talk to a single person about any of this. No one. And she made me feel so bad about it all that I felt I shouldn’t talk about it, even if there was someone. I felt ashamed and thought I was an awful person. Sometimes I still do. My mother abandoned me in the worst ways possible.
Yeah, I’m a drug addict. And a prostitute. The whole world knows. Not because I robbed my own family. Not because I ended up behind bars. Not because I’ve been hassled by the cops when soliciting customers from a local street corner. Not because I’m shooting up in the public bathrooms at your city park. Everyone knows because I told them all. I never tried to hide any of it. I never felt the need to.
Love is an awfully personal thing for most of us, so why isn’t hate?
In some ways, forcing me to leave was the best thing that could have happened to me. In other ways, it was a disaster. I’m still glad they did it though, because I think I might have just died if I had stayed at the coast. Although I ended up there a couple years later, when my mother relapsed on a whim, I think I needed that two years away from that horrible little coastal town where time is frozen and ideas creep forward too slow to notice any progress.
If you manage to live long enough, most of your greatest fears become fond memories to look back on.