Not You It's Me

The way I see it, everyone’s been telling the story wrong. I mean, take Cinderella, for example. She never asked for a Prince, let alone waited around for one. Hell, all she ever wanted was a night off from work and a fancy dress to twirl in for a few hours. It’s never made sense to me that I’m supposed to sit around pining for some mythical Prince Charming to get off his ass and rescue me. If that’s the grand game plan, I could end up waiting forever. Because, I mean, if he’s anything like the rest of the male population, the prince is probably stuck in traffic somewhere, or got lost along the way and is too damn stubborn to ask for directions.

Take a risk on messy. Live Fearlessly. Love recklessly. Most of all, just love.

You’re my karma, sunshine. And I’m pretty sure you were made for me.

you end up at the destination you fix your eyes on: look to the future and you’ll get there, keep looking at the past, and you’ll find yourself back where you started.

When you start to fall, don't try to talk yourself out of it. The right man will be there at the bottom, to catch you.

We’re together. You’re mine. Which means, I give a shit. I’m always going to give a shit. We’re going to fight, we’re going to make mistakes, we’re probably going to drive each other fucking crazy because, like I said earlier, you’re a loon.” I open my mouth to protest, but he keeps on talking. “Don’t tell me I don’t care about you, because it’s bullshit. Don’t tell me I’m not in this with you, because I am. I’m in it, sunshine. And I care — a hell of a lot more than I ever thought I would.” He drops his forehead to rest against mine, and his voice loses a tiny bit of its edge. “This relationship — it’s happening. You and me — we’re partners. Equal partners, with equal feelings, and equal fucking chances of getting hurt. You got me?

Easy as pie. Actually, come to think of it, not easy as pie. Easy as something else. Like ramen noodles. Or microwave popcorn. Because, what exactly about pie is easy?

Your hearing is just fine. It’s your listening that seems to be the problem.

When I look up at him, the gloating smile falls off my lips faster than Ned Stark’s head hit the ground — sorry, spoiler alert — because there’s a look on his face I can’t quite describe.

I totally ignore the sheer number of bookshelves lining the far wall, even though I’m itching to explore them, because, well, as everyone knows, if the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, the way to a girl’s is through a good book.

Sometimes, you have to raze things to the ground before you can start over. Sear away the past, to pave the way for a bright future.

But…” I’m really grasping at straws, now. “You don’t date,” I remind him, desperate to believe my own words. “You don’t do more.” “That’s true.” Despite myself, I feel my heart deflate like a week-old balloon. “Maybe that’s because I wasn’t doing it with you.

Of all the people in the world who could've won the seat next to mine at that playoff game... it was you, Gemma. You. The one person on the planet who might just understand me.

He’s a sculpture. Painstakingly chiseled into perfection over the course of years, until arias could be written about his eyebrows, his cheekbones, the freaking shape of his nostrils. And me? Well, I’m probably a finger-painting. Done by a three-year-old. Without supervision.

His words clip out like bullets from a gun — sharp, staccato, shiver-inducing.

Whatever.” I shrug. “It’s good, I guess, but if given the choice, I’d still pick, like, a Kristen Ashley book any day of the week.

Wait, you hate waffles?” He chuckles. “Is that a problem?” “Um, yes.” I make my eyes bug out. “Only Satan hates waffles.” “Maybe I’m the devil.

Apparently, I missed the lesson on thinking-before-speaking in kindergarten.

I’ll stay, sunshine. For you, I’ll stay.

What are you doi—” My words are swallowed up as his lips crash down on mine. It isn’t a soft kiss — it’s intense, furious, in a way I never knew a kiss could be, his lips hard and unforgiving against mine. It’s a shut-up-I-hate-you kiss. A you-drive-me-crazy kiss. An if-I-don’t-kiss-you-I’ll-kill-you kiss. It’s a battle — our mouths are opposite fronts, fighting for ground, warring for control. I shove his chest. He bites my lip. I nip his tongue. He tugs my hair. The kiss goes wild as my other arm winds around him, clutching the back of his shirt, my nails raking against the fabric.

know better than anyone that love isn’t always perfectly balanced — it doesn’t break even, doesn’t weigh the scales equally on both sides.

have a strict rule against dating men like that. I don’t want to be the Luke to anyone’s Yoda, you know what I’m saying?

You’re much too sweet for me.” “I’m not sweet. I’m tough.” “Said the girl who doesn’t like contact sports and, last time she went to the gym, sprained her va—

Life is a big, fat mess. There’s no order or reason to most of what’ll happen to you before you turn to dust and fade from memory, and there’s nothing you can do about that. All you can do is find someone who turns that abstract chaos into a work of art… and never let them go.

It’s never made sense to me that I’m supposed to sit around pining for some mythical Prince Charming to get off his ass and rescue me. If that’s the grand game plan, I could end up waiting forever. Because, I mean, if he’s anything like the rest of the male population, the prince is probably stuck in traffic somewhere, or got lost along the way and is too damn stubborn to ask for directions.

room for me. I don’t even hesitate as I slip inside the warm space and settle back against the soft cushions with a relieved sigh. *** Eyes firmly closed, I pull a series of deep breaths though my nose in a futile attempt to collect myself. Now that I’ve stopped moving, my emotions

You’d be a real pain in the ass if you weren’t so damn cute.