I like her. She makes life interesting. She, herself, is interesting, I suppose. She talks right from the heart. I appreciate her frankness and I like the fact that she doesn’t force the natural flow of a conversation. There’s personality in her words. She thus gets to the core of things and that’s important because with her — I can talk knowing that the talk is real! Oh believe me, it’s amazingly real! And she also gives me the opportunity to listen as fully and completely as possible. And I can’t seem to get her out of my head […]
He’s not exactly beautiful, but she kisses him anyway. He’s not exactly attractive, but she takes him home anyway. She kisses him because his smile is a hundred times more real than all the gorgeous guys she’s kissed, and it lights up his not so beautiful face. She takes him home because he’s got a certain energy, a certain intensity, a certain goodness, a certain something that just drives her irrevocably insane. She kisses him again one fateful night and realizes that though his insides turn hers inside out, his outside isn’t doing it for hers. She wonders why she can’t see past his crooked nose and fucked up teeth, and she hates herself for being such a shallow shit. But she kisses him again - she kisses him one last time. She kisses him so she’ll remember what kissing a beautiful man feels like the next time she kisses a pretty one.
— (via orlansky)
Have patience with all things- but first with yourself. Never confuse your mistakes with your value as a human being. You are perfectly valuable, creative, worthwhile person simply because you exist. And no amount of triumphs or tribulations can ever change that.
But I believe in true love, you know? I don’t believe that everybody gets to keep their eyes or not get sick or whatever, but everybody should have true love, and it should last at least as long as your life does.
Maybe I was destined to forever fall in love with people I couldn’t have. Maybe there’s a whole assortment of impossible people waiting for me to find them. Waiting to make me feel the same impossibility over and over again.
— Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home (via quotes-shape-us)
Its so hard to talk when you want to kill yourself. That’s above and beyond everything else, and it’s not a mental complaint-it’s a physical thing, like it’s physically hard to open your mouth and make the words come out. They don’t come out smooth and in conjunction with your brain the way normal people’s words do; they come out in chunks as if from a crushed-ice dispenser; you stumble on them as they gather behind your lower lip. So you just keep quiet.
— Ned Vizzini, It’s Kind of a Funny Story (via quotes-shape-us)