Better Than Fiction

by Alexa Martin

I don’t even like myself half the time and you’re telling me it’s a good idea to latch myself on to one other person until death do we freaking part? Or more likely, until they cheat, get bored, or whatever other reason fifty percent of marriages end in divorce.

A Saturday night spent listening to some old guy mansplain what women want? Can’t freaking wait.

Whereas I love thunderstorms, I hate glitter with a fiery passion, and my senior year, I was quite literally voted “Most Likely to Leave and Never Come Back.”

Oh ur quirky

If she ordered the e-book, we might have to fight.

I feel attacked

“One of my more toxic traits is pettiness; I can’t let most things slide.” Okay. Is the reason I’m going to be single forever because I loudly—and proudly—announce my toxic traits to virtual strangers within minutes of meeting them? Yeah. One of about a million reasons, actually.

Let’s just say that dick is truly the only infinite resource known to humankind.”

Our standards are so low that when someone is average, they jut above the crowd. Common courtesy should be the bare minimum, yet here we are, offering endless praise for being a decent human being.

“Thank you so much.” I take the martini from the waitress much like I used to take Elsie’s newborns from her, that is to say, gently and cautiously. Treating it like the precious creation I know it to be.

I go into every relationship with people who identify as male assuming they’re either a liar, a cheater, an asshole, or the grand trifecta of all of the above.

Gran always told me there were three types of people we should avoid at all costs: Someone who doesn’t return their grocery cart to the cart corral. A person whose voice doesn’t change when talking to dogs or babies. Anybody who is rude to the waitstaff at restaurants.

“Trust me, the last thing you want is to hear about my old life.” “And you trust me, there’s nothing I’d rather hear more.”

Oh I'm weak

I know that getting blackout drunk is bad.

“I do not appreciate you both being all supportive and caring.” I fan my face, refusing to let a single tear fall because thugs don’t cry.

I read an article once about brain science—I was in college and pretending to be an intellectual, sue me—and it said how when you’re reading a book, your brain can’t differentiate between the character in the story and you. In your mind, you are this character; you’re living their experiences.

escapism leads to denial and denial leads to heartbreak.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to think of this book, but so far, so good. It’s not a “typical” book. The format is different; it’s like someone put the transcript from a documentary into book format. I know it’s why Jasper put this first on the list; it’s the perfect way to ease me in. Plus, the concept is really cool. It’s about a band from the seventies and the characters are all messy, messy, messy. Which is my favorite aesthetic. I appreciate that the characters have real flaws.

OKAY DAISY JONESSS

Some people get hot-girl summers, I have hot-mess-girl summers.

when he said he was here for the view, he looked directly at me. Like I’m the view he’s here for. Like a day spent looking at me would be a day well spent.

What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good compliment. I’ll take “Daddy Issues” for six hundred, Alex!

“You wouldn’t call the police. I’m your goddamn father!” The fucking audacity of this man! I lean in this time, my unpolished nail getting so in his face I almost scratch his nose. “Then fucking act like it for once in your life.”

I once dated a guy whose hobby was magic, and it wasn’t great for me. But admittedly, it also wasn’t terrible? He was a hit at parties and it was cute how excited he was when he learned a new trick. I might be a little bitter because his best act happened to be how he disappeared at the end of our relationship.

I’d do me, but fingers crossed I won’t have to because Jasper will.

Cringe

“Serving some Harry Styles realness, are we?” He nods, and his smile changes in a way I may not understand, but do like. “Just hoping for a little watermelon sugar.”

Cool what the fuck

The pride she had for me is practically bursting off the matte paper and I remember that. But at the same time, I’ve forgotten, and as I try to recall this moment, this conversation, I realize that what I have left of her is fading. I can’t remember the exact tenor of her voice or what her perfume smelled like when it mixed with the scent of her shampoo.

There’s something that grounds you when you’re entrenched in nature. I don’t think humans were designed to never experience fresh air and stillness. Hustle culture has somehow shifted the narrative so that we feel guilty when we rest instead of accepting the truth, which is that we need rest to thrive. Add in the constant rise in the cost of living but never increasing pay? We’ve forgotten about work-life balance because we’re all killing ourselves to survive.