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we’ll be hosting a blowout wedding-themed book launch for Noa Callaway—our biggest author and the writer who taught me about love when my mom couldn’t.
Trauma bomb on page one?
“You gonna take my bishop before we die, Marjorie?” a player asks from one table. “No way, Betty, I’m not falling for your Siberian trap,” her opponent says.
OKTHATHASTOBEATAYLORSWIFTREFRENCE
I am in a funk not even Taylor Swift can penetrate.
I thought that was impossible.
“I’m tired of this idea that everything has to change—that we have to change—after we get married. It’s a wedding, not an apocalypse. Isn’t the point to celebrate what we already have?” “Okay . . . how much have you had to drink?”
Oh i hate him.
“You deserve—” I start to say. “Don’t tell me what I deserve,” he snaps. “I know what I deserve. I also know you’re going to regret this. Because you’re never going to find someone who will take care of you the way I can take care of you, who will give you the life I would have. And by the time you realize that, it’s going to be too late.”
Babes. An albino rat could treat her better. So shut up.
“That’s the beauty of breaking up. One less problem.”
Wowwww. You suckkkk
“Tuna. With. Onions.”
That. Is. Disgusting.
Lowered expectations don’t invite disappointment. They expect the imperfect in all of us. Your
“It’s Two Thousand Picnics in Central Park,” he says. I exhale, laugh, then make a mind-blown motion with my hands. Noah grins. “Yours, too?”
...yeah sure
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
STOP. 2012 IS CALLING.
