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Forty is when you have to stop kidding yourself that you’re still a young anything. If you don’t—if you subscribe to such self-actualizing bullshit as “forty is the new twenty-five”—you’re going to find yourself starting to slide. Just a little at first, but then a little more, and all at once you’re fifty with a belly poking out your belt buckle and cholesterol-busters in the medicine cabinet. At twenty, the body forgives. At forty, forgiveness is provisional at best.
Holly knows this is how addicts think and behave: they rearrange the furniture of their lives to make room for their bad habits.
No Miss America, but she was a prom queen back in high school. And nobody dumped a bucket of blood on her, either.”
Here is another relationship chilled by the fast-talking man in the red tie. It’s not fate and not coincidence.
What you don’t want to do is what must be done first. Then it’s out of the way.
You believe that, Holly thinks. You believe it to your very soul, because you’re a holder-onner, and holder-onners are never able to understand let-goers. They are tribes that just can’t understand each other. Sort of like vaxxers and anti-vaxxers, Trumpers and Never Trumpers.
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love isn’t always support. Sometimes love is taking the supports away.
“Old age is a time of casting away, which is bad enough, but it’s also a time of escalating indignities.”