I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme. I hate it, I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
I measure the moment in the heartbeats I skip
You are happy even if you are afraid to admit it.
it's the belief, not the words, that mean everything. it's the floating.
You see, Dash -- I was never the girl in your head. And you were never the boy in my head. I think we both knew that. It's only when we try to make the girl or boy in our head real that the true trouble comes. I did that with Carlos, and it was a bad failure. Be careful what you're doing, because no one is ever who you want them to be. And the less you really know them, the more likely you are to confuse them with the girl or boy in your head.
Deep breaths. I am taking deep breaths. Composure. Which, for me, means composing... Maybe this is my way of creating the illusion of control over something I have no control over. Like, if it's just a story I'm telling or a song I'm singing, then I'll be okay because I'm the guy who's providing the words.
I just needed to realize that style was like personality - it didn't always have to be consistent; it just had to be something you lived with.
luckily, tiny texts me every five minutes or so. i don't know how he does it without getting caught in class. maybe he hides the phone in the folds of his stomach or something.
I kiss her and she finds the light switch and turns it off, and we're just lit in Pepsi-can colors and it's like we've finally found this other kind of conversation, this conversation in gestures and pulls and pushes and breaths and grasps and teases and glimmers and rubs and expectation.
Now, I don't believe in doing hugs halfway. I can't stand people who try to hug without touching. A hug should be a full embrace - as I wrap my arms around Tony, I am not just holding him, but also trying to lift off his troubles for a moment so that the only thing he can feel is my presence, my support.
I want to kiss her without counting the seconds. I want to hold her so long that I get to know her skin. I want, I want, I want.
simon: that's disgusting! me: what's disgusting? simon: you know. you put your thing in the place where he, um, defecates.
I was attempting to write the story of my life. It wasn't so much about plot. It was much more about character.
I mean, what if love isn't a yes-or-no question? It's not either you're in love or you're not. I mean, aren't there different levels? And maybe these things, like words and expectations and whatever, don't go on top of the love. Maybe it's like a map, and they all have their own place, and then when you see it from the sky - whoa.
I've always known I was gay, but it wasn't confirmed until I was in kindergarten. It was my teacher who said so. It was right there on my kindergarten report card: PAUL IS DEFINITELY GAY AND HAS VERY GOOD SENSE OF SELF.
It scares me how hard it is to remember life before you. I can't even make the comparisons anymore, because my memories of that time have all the depth of a photograph. It seems foolish to play games of better and worse. It's simply a matter of is and is no longer.
With all due respect, if you’re forty-three, then I’m a fetus.
everyone in our school has afterschool activities. mine is going home.
If you want to be loved, be a lovable. It's a good place to start.
anchor, v.: I drift, I drift, I drift, you stay.
apparel, n.: There are times I don’t mind doing the laundry, because folding your clothes reminds me of the shape of you.
Long live protest songs, in whatever form they take.
It was the most amazing feeling in the world. to know that something right happened, and to know that it had happened not through luck or command but simply because it was right.
It felt good to be surrounded by books, by all this solid knowledge, by these objects that could be ripped page by page but couldn't be torn if the pages all held together.
And who am I to blow against the wind?
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