People have very clear ideas on what abuse is. Abuse is physical, or abuse is between man and woman, or abuse is between parent and child; abuse is verbal, mental; abuse happens in romantic relationships and marriages and in between the walls of a house where no one can see in. But abuse is not just that.
I feel sorry for ugly people. Actually, that’s not true, but it’s a thought I deliberately generate sometimes in order to feel like I’m a good and caring person.
Look away from The Married Guy. He is either faithful, in which case you should concentrate your energy on trying not to hate his wife for her obscene good fortune, or cheating, in which case you should concentrate your energy on hoping he falls down and breaks his ankle, at a minimum.
Bring your favorite toy to school to impress her; watch her hold it in her tiny hands and swell with pride when she’s receptive. She has good taste. Watch her cautiously; you couldn’t live if she accidentally dropped it, broke it.
We shall discover herein analytical aspects of our subject, punctuated by commentary of a more personal sort, starting right here with a description of the emotional status necessary to get Cheetos Puffs. One does not wish to live any longer, but still wants their final moments filled with joy.
The Party Girl still hits the old haunts, but now it’s mostly to reminisce with her bartender friends about old crazy antics instead of to create new mayhem. She used to sleep with the band guy back in the day, and now when she runs into him on the street she is stunned by how old and tired he looks; all gin blossoms and jowl.
“Do you know *insert name of possible mutual friend here*? Because they also went to Bradford High and I thought you might know them. Oh, you don’t? It’s a really big school but I figured there was a chance. Okay.”
Truth be told, I kind of love Avril. She makes unabashed catchy pop and makes no bones about the fact that she’s sort of a joke. But I can’t, won’t, don’t get behind the atrocity that is “Girlfriend.”
My best friends have always changed over time. There was Madison in second grade. I helped her plaster her bedroom walls in ‘Teen Beat’ Jonathan Taylor Thomas posters. She and I lost touch when I changed schools. Then, there was Matthew in fourth grade.
The recent recession has done a great job of disguising the deadbeats — making them at first glance indistinguishable from the ambitious, driven young men merely fighting off the symptoms of economic collapse – and so the women who haven’t given up altogether often won’t know what kind of guy they’ve got until they’ve wrinkled their ‘first date dress’ and wasted a night.
Recently realized certain aspects of what he thought was his identity were actually just uncontrollable delusions lacking any concrete behavior as evidence of their truth and significance.
You know the drill. You meet; you fall in ‘like’. Maybe you develop a romantic history (drunk sex, a date, a dance floor pash), or maybe you just admire them from afar. You feel like if they were a pop star you’d put a poster of their face on your wall and blow it kisses before you fell asleep to dream about them all night. If you were in high school you’d write their name on all your folders and do love equations with both your names.
The woman who wont drive 45 minutes to the only open McDonalds in her town at 5am when her stomach threatens to suicide over an unrequited love affair with a cheeseburger is not to be trusted. Having the willpower to overcome her instincts would make her a formidable opponent in both war and sex games.
Worry that your relationship lacks definition because you are vastly over-invested (you are) (this is the most clarity and insight you will have throughout this whole situation). Spend more time being concerned that things aren’t going to pan out the way you want them to than actually doing anything to cause them to pan out the way you want them to…
Your Disney film of choice says more than just what VHS was worn to tatters from merciless overuse when you were eight; it says which 1 hour and 30 minutes contained your tiny little dreams. So put on your Tinkerbell costume (you know you still have it), get out your stuffed Boo doll, and settle in for a little trip down One Day My Prince Will Come Lane.
Minimize eye contact. As a general rule, the ratio of eye contact with your crush to how much you’re crushing on your crush should be inverse. If you must acknowledge your crush, a sideways glance or indirect stare is advised.
The best love songs make it possible for you to feel like you’re in love for the duration of the song. Even if you’ve been single for some time, you can play the song and feel like you belong to somebody. That’s what “I Only Have Eyes For You” does for me.
I want to impart my newfound wisdom to all of the readers who want their apartment to stop smelling like One Night Stand and Regret. Listen carefully, grasshoppers.