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“Don’t minimize your suffering like that. Don’t tell yourself that your pain is invalid because it isn’t big enough, or that other people have been through more.
It isn’t about how weak or strong you are. And it isn’t for other people to decide whether or not your trauma is real. It is real, because you’ve lived it.”
On a little stage surrounded by hay bales sat a very attractive bear in a blue flannel shirt and a bushy red beard. He was tuning an acoustic guitar between distractions from one of the waiters, an equally stocky man with honeyed skin and raven black hair. Even from this distance, the smiles they gave each other were so cheek-bitingly wicked that Locky found himself glancing over to Benedict, craving that same attention.
Locky’s eyes bulged—among other things. “This table isn’t tall enough for you to talk like that!”
You know why they call them dreams, Benedict? Because eventually, you have to wake up.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Mr. Sorenson? Things are better if they’re a little messed up.”
“What? I prefer my balls a little less fancy and a little more furry.”
Because, in so many ways, things were better when they were a little messed up.
