The Walkman was a staple piece in your outfit.
It’s an impossible experience to describe to someone; they just had to live it.
What happened to you wasn’t fair. What happened to your family wasn’t fair. Nothing about your death was fair.
It’s okay to take a hundred selfies, because you don’t like the way that you looked in the first ninety-nine of them.
My world stops as I see a picture of you. I can’t move for the rest of the day. The taste on my tongue instantly turns sour when I kiss another lover.
When I am asked if I will ever have children of my own, my response has gone from a timid “don’t judge me” reply, to simply saying no. Sometimes just one word is the biggest truth we can ever tell.
If I could jump inside your head and slap your inner critic, I would in half a heartbeat.
To sum it all up, my heart simply grew tired of you.
Fake tan, fake nails, fake boobs, fake food, fake people, fake things of any kind kill your soul, not to mention your wallet.
This behavior is not only dangerous but stifling to innovation and the development of new ideas.