I’d rather be pleasantly surprised to meet someone I have a genuine connection with, because it doesn’t happen every day, or even often, and when it does, I trust myself to recognize it as something special.
I’ve always had this thing with strangers. The weird ones flock to me.
uncanny: “No, I am not fucking going to watch The Conjuring or Annabelle with you. Those movies make me feel uncanny as fuck. But we can watch Raw. Do you want to watch Raw?”
You’re out of red, so grab three of your favorite bottles of Claret (which you can pronounce correctly because you are so cultured), a bottle of Chianti, Malbec, and Garnacha, because like most Millennials, you are a global citizen, which is slang for wino-in-training.
You do not cry. Big girls don’t cry. You narrow down your diagnosis to either gas pain, food poisoning, or your real doctor’s favorite, a virus.
How about instead of me pretending to like sports, you pretend to vehemently hate them?
My restored faith in humanity in general.
“Remember, if logic were all there really was to the world, then surely all men would ride sidesaddle.”
I could totally do this. But better.
She dated Chris Martin. I listened to “A Rush of Blood to the Head” on repeat throughout most of middle school.