I hate you. I mean, I don’t hate you hate you. I just resent you deeply. Like the way you resent an older, more successful sibling.
Men will never be asked the question, “Can you have it all?” because it’s implied that they already do. Their penis entitles them to the life cake and eating it too. They have a monopoly on “All.” They invented “All.” Meanwhile, women are constantly being led to believe that “all” is an elusive thing.
I know that it’s an erotic novel of some sort, loosely associated with Twilight (but perhaps not explicitly?) and that women love it. Still, what the color grey or the many shades in which it comes has to do with an erotic Twilight novel is beyond me.
Whenever I get injured or sick, my go-to method is the ol’ “do nothing.” Yep. I do nothing. I continue on with my life, dragging my half-working body around like I’m the guy from Monty Python and The Holy Grail. “It’s just a flesh wound!” I shout as my arm falls off.