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write something anti-Trump on social media and feel like it was a personal attack, which is a thing that’s uniquely American, in case you didn’t know. The way people there conflate their political alignment with their personal identity. Being a Republican or being a Democrat in America is for so many people akin to racial identity. Now that I don’t live in America anymore, that strikes me as so weird. Because—honestly—neither party is great these days, and when you personalize something to the extent many people do in politics, any time anyone questions something the party does, it can feel
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Freaking truuuuuuuuue
a flower—“is a magnolia,
Magnolia Parks???
ship—“is a ship.”
A nod to Never??
He looks at me, but I mean, really looks at me—like there’s subtext. “When I like something, I just like it,” he says. And it’s me. I’m the subtext.
He takes a step away from me and onto the flat burial stone—it feels like he looks at me in slow motion—and then he offers me his hand and I take it and he pulls me in toward him and spins me. Then he pauses and glances down at me, each of us still frozen in our dance stances, and I hope the universes freezes and I’m forever stuck in the arms of the world’s hottest alcoholic, dancing on the grave of a bigot.
Frick i cannot
“You’re fucking annoying.”
Lol
“What, you think magicians are just born with magic?” Oliver pulls a face. “They have to train too.” “That’s what Hogwarts is for,” Tenny interjects.
Lmfao
being near him like this feels like smelling petrol—you just keep inhaling forever.
I’m so glad he can’t see my face, because I’m not just the cat who got the cream; I’m the cat who got the whole fucking cow.
he was just watching me, frowning, staring at me like I was a crooked picture on the wall he couldn’t quite get straight.
She loved my dad. Loves? Loves, I think is the appropriate tense. I don’t think you just stop loving someone once they’re suddenly gone. I think that’s what makes it hard.
I get the distinct feeling that maybe he is the adult version of a nightlight.
the more I realize something about it hurts me, but not in the bad way—in the good way? You know how there’s a good kind of hurting? Like rubbing out a cramp? Or great sex, sometimes? Being near him hurts me all over my body. I think it’s because he’s what all the songs are singing about. Every single fucking one of them, they’re singing about him.
He gives me a long look, then kisses me again. It’s not rushy or urgent. It’s not a bookend kiss, he’s not signing off, he doesn’t say goodbye—he just kisses me, hands in my hair, soft and melty, and then he slips out of my room.
His kisses are commas.
He swallows before he says very simply, “I think I’ve waited my whole life for this day.”
