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Reality is Broken...
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  (page 21 of 354)
Aug 19, 2014 06:04PM

 

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Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl by Carrie Brownstein
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The Book of Lillith by Eveline Eveline
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Dark Places by Gillian Flynn
Dark Places
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Binocular Vision by Edith Pearlman
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No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai
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Under the Banner of Heaven by Jon Krakauer
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The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
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Elenko94 is on page 121 of 336 of Dear Life
Dear Life by Alice Munro
Dear Life
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History is Dead by Kim Paffenroth
History is Dead
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More of Elenko94's books…
E.N. Joy
“As parents we have to make sure our children receive immunization shots so that they are protected against something they might come into contact with that could kill them. That could destroy and tear down their little bodies until death is welcomed versus the pain. We would never want that to happen to our children. Well, our Father feels the same way about us.”
E.N. Joy, More Than I Can Bear: Always Divas Series Book Two

William Styron
“depression, which can be as serious a medical affair as diabetes or cancer.”
William Styron, Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness

Tom Robbins
“They say that February is the shortest month, but you know they could be wrong.

Compared, calendar page against calendar page, it looks to be the shortest, all right. Spread between January and March like lard on bread, it fails to reach the crust on either slice. In its galoshes it's a full head shorter than December, although in leap years, when it has growth spurts, it comes up to April's nose.

However more abbreviated than it's cousins it may look, February feels longer than any of them. It is the meanest moon of winter, all the more cruel because it will masquerade as spring, occasionally for hours at a time, only to rip off it's mask with a sadistic laugh and spit icicles into every gullible face, behavior that grows quickly old.

Febuary is pitiless, and it's boring. That parade of red numerals on its page adds up to zero: birthdays of politicians, a holiday reserved for rodents, what kind of celebrations are those? The only bubble in the flat champagne of February is Valentine's Day. It was no acident that our ancestors pinned Valentine's day on February's shirt: he or she lucky enough to have a lover in frigid, antsy February has cause for celebration, indeed.

Except to the extent that it "tints the buds and swells the leaves within" February is as useless as the extra r in it's name. It behaves like an obstacle, a wedge of slush and mud and ennui holding both progress and contentment at bay.

If February is the color of lard on rye, its aroma is that of wet wool trousers. As for sound, it is an abstract melody played on a squeaky violin, the petty whine of a shrew with cabin fever. O February, you may be little but you're small! Where you twice your tiresome length, few of us would survive to greet the merry month of May.”
Tom Robbins

Cheryl Strayed
“It hadn't occurred to me that my mother would die. Until she was dying, the thought had never entered my mind. She was monolithic and insurmountable, the keeper of my life. She would grow old and still work in the garden. This image was fixed in my mind, like one of the memories from her childhood that I made her explain so intricately that I remembered it as if it were mine. She would be old and beautiful like the black-and-white photo of Georgia O'Keeffe I'd once sent her. I held fast to this image for the first couple of weeks after we left the Mayo Clinic, and then, once she was admitted to the hospice wing of the hospital in Duluth, that image unfurled, gave way to the others, more modest and true. I imagined my mother in October; I wrote the scene in my mind. And then the one of my mother in August and another in May. Each day that passed, another month peeled away.”
Cheryl Strayed, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail

Colleen Hoover
“When life gives you lemons, make sure you know whose eyes you need to squeeze them in.”
Colleen Hoover, Ugly Love

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