Is it evil not to be sure?

by Lena Dunham

as women, we work through pain that seems impossible. Sometimes it’s the result of life’s randomized gut punches, but often enough it’s self-inflicted. That pain has a purpose, but we might not see it

until a decade or so later, when Twitter has been invented and we’ve already quit it twice.

Here’s to hoping your writing, whatever form it may take, has this same time-machine magic: that it will remind you where you’ve been, what you’ve weather, just how strong you were even when you felt weak and just how ready you are for the next

moment.

I would kiss you, but only if I was sure that afterward you would go away forever.

I wish I had never found out about karma.

Like Joan Didion, I wonder what it’s all being written down for. Is there a larger purpose for all these tiny pieces I carry that cannot be condensed or consolidated?

I never feel as poetic as when I have my feet in some hot water.

I never appreciate my health until it’s gone. I can’t stop saying thanks

I like to fantasize about a kind of love that validates all things, the kind of experience that is so huge and consuming that everything makes sense in its nonsensicality. Would having a baby be like this? Or the most crazy love of all time?

I’m learning that just because someone is smart, funny and good in bed, it doesn’t mean they’re nice

“It was a mistake.” “you can’t chalk everything in your life

up to a mistake. I guess you can.”