Sad Girls

I learned that writing is the consolation prize you are given when you don’t get the thing you want the most.

Your first love isn't the first person you give your heart to- it's the first one who beaks it.

The truth is, everyone wants to believe they’re in love but no one really is. So to all the girls out there who are stuck between two minds about some stupid crush, I have news for you. If you have to wonder, if you have to question what you feel, then deep down you actually don’t give a shit. As for the rest of you who do get it, welcome to the club. If you know what it’s like to want someone so much you would kill for them. If you know what it’s like to feel someone so deep under your skin you would sacrifice everything to protect them—even if it screws up your own moral compass so you can’t see right from wrong. If you’re like me, then let me leave you with this: That’s what love is. Don’t let them tell you any different. Don’t tell yourself otherwise.

You know, missing someone can sometimes be the best thing for a writer.

I'm a stranger in my own life.

We never made it, did we?

I'm the one having to pander to you. I'm sick of being the one doing all the chasing. I'm not asking you to make me a priority - I know you've got a lot going on. But at least meet me halfway.

People who are prone to sadness are more likely to pick up a pen.

It’s amazing what people create using their pain. Work that is touched by melancholy has its own unique beauty. Even the word ‘melancholy’ is pretty, the way it rolls on your tongue. I think sadness adds something to literature that is unique. It’s an ingredient like . . .” I thought for a moment. “Like salt. Salt has that power to completely transform a dish. I think sadness has that same transformative effect in literature.

Our emotions pull us in different directions. The stronger the emotion, the greater the pull. Feelings are not always practical, nor do they make any logical sense. That's just the way it goes.

If you have to be with someone at all, then be with someone who makes you feel like you are still in control.

People get dumped all the time, and it sucks, but you know what you do? You cry; you smash a few plates; you go to a karaoke bar and make a fool of yourself. However you choose to deal with it, it’s your shit to handle. It’s your burden to carry. You don’t drag other people down with you. You don’t turn up on the doorstep in the middle of the night acting like a raving lunatic.

I miss talking to him. Every time I come across something I think he'd like, I just wish I could call him up or send him a text. Like the other day, I saw this movie, Coherence. It was about parallel universes, and I just know he'd love it. That's the thing; he's the ongly person i know who would appreciete it the same way I do. And I wish I could watch it with him and talk to him about it. Why is that so important to me? I don't get it. I didn't even think about all this before I knew him.

Great name, though. I'd fuck that name.

Death, like fiction, is brutal in its symmetry. Take this story and strip it down -all the way back- until you are left with two points. Two dots on a vast, blank canvas, separeted by a sea of white. Here, we have come to the first point, where the batj is drawn and the hand is reachinh for the razor blade. I will meet you at the next, by the axle of a screaming wheel, the revolution of a clock, the closing of an orbit.

Because sooner or later, all kinds of love - crazy love, wild love- fade into the same thing. The love becomes old and predictable -safe.

You are a toolbox, and you have to add stuff to it and build on it. I think the more tools you have, the better life gets." "I like that idea." "That's my mission in life. To keep adding to the toolbox.

I can't believe how hard it is. The pain is indescribable. It's like I've been turned into sandstone and my insides are being slowly hollowed out by a chisel and mallet.

Writing is a conduit. It opens up a passageway into the past. Not just for the writer, but for the reader too. Both readers and writer are linked by the commonality of human experience.

I used to think people were like lighthouses. That they were yhere to protect you. But they're no. People are lime whirlpools. They pull you in; they drag you under. You have to work so hard just to keep your head above water.

First love," said Ida with a sigh. "That's the one that kills you.

It's almost like there was only an up and down before him, but now I hav discovered you can also go sideways too.

But i would love to write something, maybe a book. I want to travel to a small town someday - one with fir trees and snowcapped mountains. Than I would spend an entire winter writing to my heart's content.

Life has a way of working itself out. You’ll see.

‪We all need to follow our intuition, even if it takes us down the wrong path. Otherwise, you’ll always be second-guessing yourself.

That night, we talked the way old friends do, with candor and ease.

Writing is the consolation prize you are given when you don't get the thing you want the most.

Maybe we slip in and out of alternate worlds through our minds and our imaginations, picking up scar tissue from other dimensions.

That's the thing about writers -on one hand evrything is sacred to them, but, on the other, nothing really is.

Now I knew why I had been hollowed out, why my insides were chipped away with a chisel and mallet. It was to make room for this new feeling, this love that was so vast, so expansive it could not have fit into the vessel I once was.