“I despise the rituals of fake friendship. I wish we could just claw each other's eyes out and call it a day; instead we put on huge radiant smiles and spout compliments until our teeth hurt from the saccharine sweetness of it all.”
“Are you mad?" I ask.
"I was." He glances at the ceiling then back at me. "Or confused, anyway. The whole thing threw me through for a loop. I thought I'd finally met a guy at Underwood I could relate to, and it turns out he wasn't a guy at all."
I swallow. "I can see how that would be weird."
"In a way though, I was relieved."
"Relieved?" I echo. "Why?"
He looks around embarrased. "Let's just say you had me questioning my sexual orientation.”
“If he’s just not into you anymore, then buy yourself a cute pair of shoes and strut your fabulousness elsewhere.”
“I tried all kinds of approaches: sexy, friendly, intimidating—nothing worked. I’m starting to think there’s an invisible force field that prevents honest communication between X and Y chromosomes.”
“I guess sometimes it takes a while for the heart to get the memo from the brain.”
“I actually plan to mess up my life and start over every seven years. That way, I’ll never get in a rut. I read somewhere that most of your cells only live about seven years anyway, so in theory you literally are a new person; I figure that’s the best time to start over.”
“The point is, feelings can change - and often do - abruptly. It's one of the riskiest aspects of falling for someone, especially during these tumultuous years when we're young and restless.”
“She has ESB,” I say.
Chloe rolls her eyes. “ESP you mean?”
“No, ESB. Extrasensory Bitchyness.”
“Supposedly, guys think about sex every eight seconds. If that's true, how can they talk to their grandmothers?”
“I think that everyone should have at least a part of them that's self-invented; in fact, the world would be much more interesting if we all created our own identities afresh whenever we felt like it. Otherwise you're just walking around regurgitating what's expected, which is like, why bother?”
“These guys may not talk too much about relationships, but they sure do blush at telling moments, don’t they? Maybe that’s the key to understanding the opposite sex; I could invent a science, call it blushology.”
“This party is turning out to be the turd-encrusted cherry on the top of my shit-shake of a day.”
“I have to say it's the most sizzling, delicious, sublime kiss ever. In the history of human beings. Possibly back to and including dinosaurs.”
“Maybe illusion and artifice—lies, even—are a necessary part of romance.”
“POKSI (Physically Okay but Socially Inept)”
“Art boy is obviously intimidated. You're like the sun and he's squinting up at you, barely able to see because of your blinking radiance”
“Suddenly, the gods have stopped saying yes and have started making really obnoxious farting noises. In my face. With their armpits.”
“All of us have our wires crossed and crisscrossed so many times it's impossible to untangle the mess. It really does seem like the entire human race might as well be conversing with hand gestures and grunts, for all the success we're having.”
“Here I've been telling him things in my head for weeks, writing long, frenzied missives to him I know I'll never send, and now that I have him less than two feet away, I'm struck dumb.
“I sometimes suspect they don't take Dr. Aphrodite very seriously. Which is sad, really. Because what's more serious than love?”
“All I have to do is shoot! In my excitement, I throw the ball down with more force than ever, feeling bad-ass. It ricochets off the floor at an angle and slams right into my crotch.
All around me, the room goes, “Ohhhh!”
I look up. Every face is staring at me, contorted into winces. Right. Ball in crotch equals excruciating pain. I’m such an idiot! Too late, I double over in pain.
“Ouch!” I yell. I sneak a glance around. Nobody looks convinced, so I add, “My balls!”
“—Las chicas deberían ser sólo quienes son, sabes. ¿Es demasiado pedir?”
“¡Aaaaahhhh! ¿Qué se supone que haga? Mis fuentes potenciales o me temen o les gusto. ¡Todos esos tipos que publican las denuncias acerca de mi ignorancia deberían atestiguar esto! Aquí estoy, reventando mi culo para obtener una pequeña miserable visión, y uno pensaría que estoy tras información clasificada o algo así. Quiero decir realmente, ¿qué demonios? ¿Es ser un chico tan fascinante y controvertido que tienen que proteger sus secretos comerciales a cualquier precio?”
“¿Por qué las chicas nos obsesionamos tanto con nuestra apariencia? Es como si realmente creyéramos que lograr mantener nuestro pelo y maquillaje perfectos hará toda la diferencia. Como si cualquier hombre digno de nuestro tiempo dejaría de ver nuestra belleza debido a un clip de diamantes de imitación arreglado en un ángulo torcido.”
“Summer estaba en lo cierto, después de todo: sería una increíble Titania. Si lo consigue ella, ¿a mí qué? Podría ser un Duende mejor, y eso podría ser más divertido de todos modos. Parezco una malvada andrógina ahora, con mi cabello corto. Probablemente sería un estupendo Duende, en realidad, ahora que lo pienso. ¿Quién dice que tengo que ser la Reina de las Hadas?”
“El punto es, ¿quién soy yo para dar consejos de amor?”
“Solía seguir hablando de lo importante que es transformarte totalmente de vez en cuando. Sigo creyendo eso, pero ahora he añadido una advertencia: Interpreta tantos papeles como te sea posible, pero sé quién eres en el fondo. Soy una chica en mi corazón, pero interpretar a un chico me ayudó a ampliar y perfeccionar mi comprensión de lo que eso significa. Soy la Dra. Afrodita, una periodista seria, una actriz prometedora, una impulsiva adolescente... soy toda esa gente, y estoy segura de que seré muchas más antes de morir.”
“When he got to the shoe putting-on stage he called Hosain again. Putting on and taking off his own shoes and boots were activities at which he drew the line if there was a man available to perform these services. He had learned to draw the line in Muzzafirabad where his first CO, Colonel Gawstone, advised him never to stoop if he could help it. The climate wasn't right for it. Mrs. Gawstone had stooped to pick up a glove and keeled right over and never got up. They had buried her the next day.”
Supports me on its giant palm;
And like a sea-anemone
Or simple snail, there cautiously
Unfolds, emerges, what I am.”
“Chet! What are you eating?”
Nothing. It was true. The eating part was over.”
“If I'm not for myself, who will be for me?
If not this way, how? If not now, when?”
“To find meaning in the mystery of existence is life’s final and fascinating challenge.”
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