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She’s chiffon and satin ribbons. I’m raw meat and razor blades.
I want to fuck you. And there is no such thing as perfectly good sex. If it’s ‘perfectly good,’ ” I mock in falsetto, “he should be shot in the head and put out of everyone’s misery. Sex either blows your fucking mind or it’s not good enough.
I defile her with reverence. Or revere her with defilement.
Don’t hide your mistakes, ’Cause they’ll find you, burn you
Some of us are born more than once. Some of us re-create ourselves many times. Ryodan says adaptability is survivability. Ryodan says a lot of stuff. Sometimes I listen. All I know is every time I open my eyes, My brain kicks on, something wakes up deep in my belly And I know I’ll do anything it takes. To. Just. Keep. Breathing.
Again, he wandered. Edgy. Alone. Seeking something he couldn’t name.
They enhanced each other’s finest qualities, as true love will.
She smelled the same as she had on the day he’d met her, of sunshine on bare skin, moonlight on silver oceans and enormous, sky-no-limit dreams.
Self-pity is wasted emotion. It merely prolongs whatever trauma you suffered by keeping it alive in your head. Dude, you survived it. Move on.
I want to tell her revenge is a devil you don’t want to worship. In destroying your enemy you become it.
Hate eats the hater.
Sometimes when really bad things happen, you put them in a box and never look at them again because they’ll cost you the rest of your life. Some wounds never heal. You excise the savaged flesh and become the next thing.
You know what your problem is? That’s always a doozy. Talk about a trick question. Nothing worth hearing ever follows that preface.
“Life is complicated, Dani.” “What the feck does that mean?” I could just pop out of my skin like an overpressured grape from sheer frustration. I hate it when people throw big sweeping generalizations at you that you can’t even begin to interpret. Life is complicated so I’m going to kill you quick? Life is complicated so I’m going to torture you to death slow and talk the whole time, driving you batshit crazy in the process? Life is complicated ergo I might forgive you if you perform Herculean tasks of redemption? The options are endless. Who doesn’t know life is complicated? What I want to
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Life is a gift. You fight to keep it. You never quit. Never.
Mac draws up short to keep from slamming into Barrons, and her blond hair swings back over her shoulder, brushing his face as it does, and my hearing is so good I catch the rasp of it chafing the shadow stubble on his jaw, then one of his hands grazes her breast and his eyes narrow when he looks at what he touched in a hungry way I want a man to look at me like one day and, as they continue to recover from the near-collision, their bodies move in a graceful dance of impeccable awareness of precisely where the other is at all times that is unity, symbiosis, partnership I only dream of, wolves
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My problems have bred entire subsets of problems, which are no doubt having birth pains to spawn yet more problems, even as I pause to brood about them.
Temptation isn’t a vice you triumph over once, completely, and then you’re free. Temptation slips into bed with you each night and helps you say prayers. It wakes you in the morning with a friendly cup of coffee, and knows just the way you take it, heavy on the sin.
I do nothing. And my self-contempt grows. Lines are thin. So easy to cross. Impossible to uncross.
It’s official. I’m losing it. Solitude and inaction are unraveling me right down to the core.
Fear of the power you believe someone or something has over you is nothing but a jail cell you choose to walk into. By obsessing over freeing yourself from the Book, you become more certainly its prisoner.
I’m a moth to his flame and it frightens me how willingly I’d burn my wings off for him. Destroy the world. Follow him to Hell. It’s scary to feel like you can’t breathe without someone. That a man has so much power over you because you love him as much as, if not more than, you care for yourself.
I know I’m not living anymore. No one could be more excruciatingly aware of that fact. It’s driving me bugfuck. Passivity isn’t my nature and I’m choking on it, drowning in it, my balls held firmly hostage
The unspoken words hang like knives in the air anyway, cutting me.
“Someone told you life was easy. You believed them,” he mocks.
I’m immobilized, pants at my ankles, dick sticking straight up, and this bitch has shark teeth. I’m beginning to think this might not be one of my finer nights.
“You’re pissing me off.” “You’d be surprised how easy it is for me to live with that.”
Good the fuck morning to me. It’s a broody one, as usual.
Humans give stuff away all the time, practically tattooing their darkest secrets in neon on their skulls for anyone to see. Perverse fuckers. If they shouldn’t think about it, they do. If they should think about it, they don’t.
The darker the hair, the more complicated the deal. If she’s not obsessively maintaining her roots, her nails, her clothes, she expects things like discussions, dates, disclosures. Bloody hell, she wants respect.
By the time you work your way down the hierarchy to a brunette, you got yourself a woman who knows who she is, likes it enough that she ain’t gonna change, and is probably gonna try to change you, if push comes to shove.
Big-boobed blondes are all about the fun, the sparkle, the bling, the heat, the moment. I love ’em. I’m bugfuck crazy about ’em. They keep my life simple and sweet.
I think each of us has a unique vibration that’s inextinguishable, and when we die it translates into the next phase of being. We may come back as a tree, or a cat, perhaps a person again, or a star. I don’t think our journey is limited. I look up at the sky, ponder the enormity of the universe and simply know that the same well of joy that birthed so much wonder gave us more than a single chance to explore it.
I know a simple truth: mercy killing doesn’t hold one fucking ounce of mercy for those that live.
Death is the final chapter in a book you can’t unread. You keep waiting to feel like the person you were before that chapter ended. You never will.
“If only it were that personal. Life fucks you anonymously. It doesn’t want to know your name, doesn’t give a shit about your station. The terrain never stops shifting. One minute you think you’ve got the world by the balls, the next minute you don’t know where the fuck the world’s balls are.”
When someone hurts you—and I’m not talking about forgivable offenses, some things are irrevocable and demand recompense—you have two choices: slice them out of your life or slice them into delicious, bloody pieces.
The only thing that keeps us rooted in the past is our refusal to embrace the present.
That is how to live: in the choosing. There are no rules but those you make for yourself.
