Sometimes, he really can do better than us. Sometimes, we really are just a bit of a bitch.
I wish you love, and light, and I know you are not a terrible human being – not really.
So what if I got it fixed? What if I had a little work done so that I could free my mind from worry about where my lips seemingly merge into the rest of my body by sorting out the one thing that bothers me – really, truly troubles me – about the way I look?
Do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life, they tell us. Like it’s that easy.
I’m not sharing these stories for the select few asshats of the Internet who use the vocalised vulnerabilities of a female writer to get their rocks off.
I wonder if the most important lesson we could ever hope to learn is actually all about where we end.
Clear out the ghosts in your closet.
This time we’ve spent together – I want it forever.
What I have to tell myself, over and over again, is that the inches of my waist are not directly proportional to my attractiveness to the opposite sex, my worthiness as a female, or ability to blow a man’s mind.
There are no wrong feelings.