I’m not writing a novel this month, but I will draft opening lines for 30 different stories.
“That one,” said the uber mom with the overly indulged kids, “Is too independent to depend on.”
“Spiritual awakening looks an awful lot like mental illness,” he noted, “It is just a matter of whether it not you integrate.”
She was wicked smart, beautiful in a way that made it hard to breathe when she was near, and fucking crazy. And on two of these counts, she totally knew it.
This book here explains that some people express love with actions, others with gifts, some even use touch, but they don’t mean sex. Me, I just use words, plain and simple. I love you. So there’s that.
He said: “This would go much easier if you could do two things for me. First, breathe; and second, just be right here in this moment.” And I thought, “We’ll no shit, isn’t that true for everything?” And then it began.
It’s a humbling moment, when your six year old rats you out, and you have to decide between discrediting him to save face, or sucking it up to save your family.
“I won’t have sex with people unless I love them,” she warned wryly, “But fortunately for you, I fall in love easily.”
From the mouths of babes: “You know those people in Afghanistan who are attacking our troops? How are they different from the Minute Men?”
She was 24, and had a science degree and 2 babies. It was 1968 and the Civil Rights Movement was happening on her black and white TV. at her 8 month checkup, the country Doc admonished her: “Pregnant women look bad enough, Dearie, you need to put on some make up.”
Sometimes you know, and sometimes you just hope. He was a “know,” for certain, but she, unfortunately, was the most torturous form of hope.
If the family had known the truth about how they used to leave the babies alone in the crib at night so they could go out for a few drinks, no one would have questioned her inability to make polite chit chat with him at holiday dinners.