“I didn’t plan it, but I love you,” he whispered in her ear one night. He wrote it on her front door the next day.
And thinking about that—the fact that I’m older and my decisions (even if I need help being led to them) are starting to feel more and more permanent —makes me want to shit my pants.
The concept of “virginity” is heteronormative.
Do anything you possibly can except write the damn sentence.
You won’t be making any money, you’ll feel like a failure.
No, when I say “kill yourself” I want you to hear: kill your parents. Slay the expectations they implanted within you, choke the traditions they noosed to your spine.
Treat me like a person. I’m not “blonde girl.” I’m not “fat guy.” And I certainly don’t appreciate it when you don’t make eye contact with me when we’re speaking. I’m a person. I can contribute to the company. Give me a chance.
The highest echelon of low profile is still maintainable as f#*k.
If you’ve ever been left hoping that someone would get his act together for you, you’ve had a Christopher.
The dedicated minimalist.