If You Kissed Me
I would follow you home. You would open the door, and I would have to stop myself from leaping for joy. I would have to pretend to be less excited than I was, pretend that I don’t need you the way I have needed you for so long now.
I would follow you home. You would open the door, and I would have to stop myself from leaping for joy. I would have to pretend to be less excited than I was, pretend that I don’t need you the way I have needed you for so long now.
Know the day where the speech is coming. Feel it in your bones when they call you and ask you to meet them somewhere — somewhere public enough that you won’t make a scene.
Is that really the point of these conversations — to get me to stop being upset by reminding me that men still find me attractive, that I still have some kind of worth in this world, as judged by others?
People tell us all the time that we should be together, that we would make such a good couple, that we’re “basically already dating.” What does that mean?
You told me you were leaving, and at least had the decency not to pretend that it was just to be alone for a while.
Read the entire Wikipedia article on a really important event you know almost nothing about, and feel really informed for the next few days.
You avoid romantic comedies like the plague because you don’t want to have to deal with the two main characters having a happy ending (and are prone to cursing at the screen).
A woman who masturbates — especially one who masturbates often — is defective in some way. She needs a man, or is driving all of the potential suitors away with her flagrant demonstrations of self-satisfaction.
Because maybe relationships don’t have to fulfill everything for everybody. Maybe you are right in wanting less, and I am being overly demanding in wanting something serious.
Feeling cheated out of what you had always imagined adulthood would look like, and resentful towards a generation of hardcore debters that left us a relatively bleak financial and professional landscape.