I caught up on seven episodes of How to Get Away with Murder with Pammie over the weekend. I’m dying to know what happens next, but I never watch this show by myself because I get too scared. I can’t wait till I’m home for Thanksgiving to find out who shot Annalise, so someone please come over when the new episode airs this Thursday!
Spoiler Alert: There will be frozen salmon from Costco (it’s the only thing I keep stocked in my fridge because holiday weight) and me with no pants on.
The act of trying to forget someone is a futile one. In order to do so, you are forced to remember. It’s like dieting. Like trying your hardest not to think about food, while weighing every ounce and counting every calorie.
Every morning, I wake up and forget just for a second that it happened. But once my eyes open, it buries me like a landslide of sharp, sad rocks. Once my eyes open, I’m heavy, like there’s too much gravity on my heart.
She was the third beer. Not the first one, which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude; nor the second, that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first. But the third, the one you drink because it’s there, because it can’t hurt, and because what difference does it make?
If people want to let you go, just let them do it. They may not understand who you are. So don’t play around with fire; don’t give them their cake and let them eat it, too. Here is your rule of thumb: they either commit to you or get none of you.
I do try. I’m the one that never calls too often and acts like it’s no sweat. I’m the one that stays busy, a blip here and then there. You won’t find me anywhere too long beyond what is welcome. Right?
Truth is that I am uncool. Goofy when it’s harmless. Frightening when I lose footing. I’m terrified of being seen with my love hanging out.
I know. I’m fooling no one but myself. Everybody knows. Now. I got caught loving, longing, dancing well after the music stopped.
Loneliness is lonely. I miss being in love and I miss being loved and I miss belonging to someone and I miss having someone to tell important things to and I worry that my missing those things will affect the choices I make and get me into trouble and I worry that I’ll forever feel like a dust mote floating around without anywhere to settle.
You have nothing. You have a pile of secrets and lies, and you’re calling it love. And in the meantime, you’re letting your whole life pass you by while they raise children, and celebrate anniversaries, and grow old together. You’re frozen in time. You’re holding your breath. You’re a statue waiting for something that’s never going to happen. Living for stolen moments… you keep telling yourself they all add up to something real, because in your mind they have to, but they don’t. They won’t. They never will, because stolen moments aren’t a life. So you have nothing. You have no one.