My hair smells good you say. You can smell it every time I turn my head.
If you haven’t read this yet, Steven is probably wrong.
He hugged the chocolate bunny until it melted. People tried to take it away from him, but he wouldn’t let go. He kept hugging the chocolate bunny tight into his chest.
“When I was born, they looked at me and said, what a good girl, what a smart girl, what a pretty girl.”
I wish I were prettier.
There’s a certain unspoken understanding that unless you’re pretty, you don’t really count. In everything you do, you’ve got to be the pretty one. When I was little, I always imagined I’d be pretty lawyer, or a pretty welder, or a...
“... a pretty firefighter.” she said softly.
There’s something romantic about being real, and tough, and then taking off your helmet and being drop-dead gorgeous.
But unless you’re that pretty, it doesn’t matter.
Beauty is the bare minimum.
That’s why I’ve kind of been enjoying being Rare.
--If you don’t fit a Spice Girl, you won’t find love.
It was perfect, I think. It was perfect, and I was happy and I couldn’t stop smiling. Like a warm Toronto night, walking the softly-padding dog by the park that’s just off my still neighborhood.
We held hands, and he made sure to kiss me goodbye. He made sure to.
But he got on the 16.
And now I’m not sure it was anything more than an impossible desire. If it actually materializes, it’s just no good.
Some things you only want because you can’t have them, I think.
What's the difference between wanting, someone and wanting to be with someone?
I’ve already written all the endings, so either way, it’s done.
I’m sorry I told you. You probably shouldn’t trust me anymore.
Won’t you wish me good night?
I like that I can make you laugh.
I want to be pursued, I think. I want someone to show me why I’m wrong. I want to be taken by the shoulders, and have some sense shaken into me. I want to be made to understand.
-- Why shouldn’t I write the ending to this book? That’s what I want to know.
I’m good at being a friend. I’m really good at being a friend.
He is a prize.
You are a prize
-- You are a (crackerjack) prize, that is.
Sometimes I thoughtfully ponder why you lost interest. It’s probably clear to everyone else, but I don’t really get it. I don't really get the rules of the game.
In an alternate universe, I would marry you, and she would marry him. In an alternate universe. But that’s not where we live.
and that’s probably a good thing, because of all the huming. - land mines.
Sometimes I feel like it should have been perfect, but you were like that girl he is looking for, not that girl he's looking for.
DON'T tell me I was trying to get it over with.
My ipod is full of country music.
“I can’t give you that. No one can.”
nothing she did
or said
was quite
what she meant
(One thing is for sure. I’m not lonely. I’m not. So please don’t say that I am.)
but still her life
could be called a monument
shaped in a slant
of available light
and set to the movement
of possible music
- Judith Downing
