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Dear Diary, Here’s a secret I’ve never told anyone: Sometimes I pretend my life is happening inside a book. I’m the main character, and there’s a narrator following me around, describing everything. Her piercing cerulean eyes gazed wistfully into the distance as an errant breeze caressed her lustrous auburn tresses . . . Et cetera. Obviously I’m the good kind of heroine, not someone whose poor life choices will lead to her dying of consumption while still in her teens. And I’m wearing a long dress, and maybe there’s a handsome stranger in the distance. Beyond that, the story is vague. Possibly
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“Sometimes past associations hold us back. Nostalgia can be a trap. Don’t confuse loyalty and sentimentality,”
“Because I was thinking about yesterday, and how close we came to disaster. I mean, I was ready to push Terry right into you-know-who’s arms. The only thing that saved us was you.”
hahah
Far better to have a noble brow, or graceful figure, or some other subtly striking feature for the discerning admirer to notice, preferably after they learned to appreciate your strength of character.
Not exactly “You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.” And okay, there were probably very few high-schoolers who could approach the level of Captain Wentworth’s passionate letter at the end of Persuasion.
Did I like soccer thighs? The question had never crossed my mind. It felt slightly crass to discuss such things until I recalled the Regency fashion for strutting around in skintight pantaloons, which had been all about guys showing off their assets.
and a harried parent volunteer said, “What can I get you?”
“He’s fine,” I told her, handing over the money. “Oh, I know, honey.” She slid the change to me with a wink.
