I want a man with excellent taste and style–who takes the utmost pride in his appearance. But he can’t be a pretty boy or dress too well and he certainly can’t look better than ME.
I had a female friend who would always disparage young women who dated older guys (of course, said disparagement was aimed not very subtly at me).
Sometimes we don’t realize that we are choosing to be discontent with our lives. We are living someone else’s version of success. We are making decisions based on which ones will get people to like us more.
You actually go over lists in your head of all the reasons why it’s not a good idea to like them, and how you could never like them in practice because they’re totally wrong for you.
When we talk about jealousy now it’s always something you want to rid yourself of, something that feels foreign. Even in the grip of it, does it not feel like you’re being taken over by an unwanted foreign antibody? We talk about it as if we’re victim to it, but in reality we’re not.
It consumes me. This desire to be skinny, small, too small. Even though I see the numbers get lower, I feel like I look the same. It frustrates me.
Don’t bank on Disney movie magic or divine intervention to make things happen if you’re sitting around idle.
You were a fleeting moment in my life that fate decided to let slip between my fingers no matter how hard I tried to grasp on to your presence.
I’ve heard so many people say – and I used to be guilty of this as well – “I just can’t figure out what my passion is.”
I want to let the redness of you stain my smile. I’m thirsty for these moments. I wish to abandon sense and reason, to fly from sober solemn silences and get loud with you, to laugh with you with complete and reckless abandon.