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October 5 - October 11, 2025
he seems more like the guy you hire to wipe out a group of civilians by drone.
So far, Hawaii is proving more exhausting than my real life.
Why is your life so full of men I want to punch?”
she’s like the foundation of a building, attracting little notice, there simply to hold him up.
It certainly appears I’m not the only person feeling lonely on a romantic trip for two.
There’s something inherently reassuring about it. About the whole city, and perhaps the whole island: the weather is mild, the trees bear fruit.
I close my eyes, wondering if there’s any way to escape our luxurious vacation and just go back to work.
The ocean is mostly something you attempt to survive, not master,
If she has a stylist, her only instructions must be “boring” and “no, more boring than that.”
She had a panic attack. And she’d rather let the whole world think she was drunk than tell the truth.
“This guy is a living good picture day.”
You’re not the fifth wheel. You’re the glue.
I’m not sure anyone can make it better, but I suspect he’d really do his best.
“I’d rather be well known for singing my own shit than famous for singing someone else’s,”
“She’s at the center of every room for you. She’s the center of every conversation. She’s all you can see.”
Memories are like artwork left in the rain. They blur and smudge until all that’s left is your weak interpretation of it, your best guess as to what it was.
I can’t stand to let myself love yet another thing I’ll eventually lose.
I don’t holler. I’m from the city. We don’t really celebrate mud there so much.
The truth is I expected little and I got even less.
It’s only a second, but infinity rests within it.
“Assuming I operate logically was your first error.”
A woman who isn’t a disaster, who’s happy with a simple life instead of a girl who’s unhappy with her complex one.
In an imperfect life, it—and this moment—are as close to perfect as I’ve ever come.
We view men like wayward little boys, but we judge women the way we do ourselves: as harshly as possible.
The problem with burning bridges is that you need to have someplace else to go.
This time, he kisses me as if we’ve been kept apart by war and deserts and decades and he kept praying, the entire time, we’d somehow find each other.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he says. He hands me a small white bag and his mouth curves upward. “I heard you wanted brioche.”
This must be what it’s like to fall in love, I think. Huh.
“Life isn’t black and white, Drew,” she says. “And you have to learn to live in the gray a little, accept that it can be perfect in all its imperfections.”
Maybe I just have some empathy now for moral gray areas, given how I’ve ventured into one.
