Bb Easton Quotes

So, this is what a family is, I thought. Just a houseful of people who've all sucked on your tits. And have also been inside your vagina.

I might be a lot of things, Journal, but a whore is one of them.

Knight would carry my backpack and open my beers and light all my cigarettes, like a gentleman.

mirrors and scales lie. They whisper things to your soul that are untrue—about your beauty, about your worth.

May those who love us, love us, And those who don’t love us, may God turn their hearts, And if he doesn’t turn their hearts, may he turn their ankles, so we’ll know them by their limping.

So, this is how it all ends, I thought. Bludgeoned to death by a skinhead’s penis in my ex-boyfriend’s childhood bedroom. And I never even got to meet Billy Idol.

Fuck' em all and survive anyway.

This woman found me broken and made me whole, and I'm suddenly determined to do the same for her.

I stared straight ahead like a gangsta, never acknowledging the cast of Hannah Montana sitting next to me, and fantasized that they were staring at me out of the corners of their eyes thinking, Who is that woman with The Suit? Is she playing with his hair? Oh my God, she’s such a badass. He looks like some rich business executive, but Rocker Chick has her arm around him like he’s her fucking bitch. I’ll bet she has tattoos. And rides a motorcycle. And keeps a pair of brass knuckles in her vagina.

You are perfect, Punk. You’re too fucking perfect. You shouldn’t be here with me. You shouldn’t be talking about having kids with me. You should be finding a nice, normal guy who will give you nice, normal kids.

There is nothing in the entire American Psychological Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual that describes my shit. I have three degrees in psychology, and I still don’t know what’s wrong with me, other than the fact that I’m a bad psychologist, obviously.

In this marriage, however, I just chalk it up to reason #983 why Ken is an asshole.

You can be bored to tears and happy at the same time, right?

Rain presses up onto her toes at the same moment that I dive for her parted lips, and our mouths collide like the train wreck that we are.

I wasn’t letting anything take her from me again. Not even God himself.

I want—all I’ve ever wanted—is for you to look at me the way you’re lookin’ at me now.

When you fall in love at the end of the world, you live every day like it’s your last.

I’ll fight to keep you alive. I’ll fight to keep you safe. But I will never fight to keep you, or anyone, from leaving me.

The way I see it, if I can survive the fucking apocalypse, then it makes everything I’ve been through mean something, you know? Like, instead of breaking me … they made me unbreakable.

My eyes shot open in surprise as Ken's strong arms clamped around my waist, as his face-rough, thanks to a dusting of evening stubble-came to rest against my neck, and as my toes dangled at least six inches above the pavement. For possibly the first time in my life, I felt grounded, and my feet weren't even touching the ground.

As I sliced his back to ribbons, Ken buried his face in my neck, wrapped his arms around my torso, and came so hard that I saw stars. Holy shit.

Every morning when I wake up I wish that I hadn’t. Everything hurts, all the time, and I just want it to stop

Oppressed School Psychologist Conservative Public School System That Probably Still Supports the Confederacy   FROM:

I don’t look back, and I don’t let go. I run hand in hand with this beautiful stranger, over roots and beneath branches, feeling more alive than I ever have.

You and I might have been born on different continents,” he says, taking my hand in both of his, “but I think we could have been born on different planets, and I still would have found you

I’ve finally found what I’ve been missing my whole life, and if I keep it, it will kill me. No wonder Rain was wearing a black hoodie when I met her. She’s the fifth fucking horseman of the apocalypse.

But if I’ve learned anything from being an only-child, it’s that all “no” really means is, “You haven’t sufficiently annoyed or inconvenienced me yet,” so I jumped on their bed every night until it broke. It

How can you stand it?” he asked, his voice like sandpaper. “How can you stand to be touched after what they did?” The breath I was holding burned in my lungs before I finally whispered, “Not all touches hurt.

Dicks...are like golden retrievers." My Face screwed up in confusion. "That's your theory?" "Yep." Zach smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Think about it. They get excited when they see something they want. They're shit at communications. And, if they like you, they'll follow you around until you finally give in and play with them.

I mean, I knew going in that he’d dropped out of school, and he was homeless and all, but I’d thought it was because he was a hardened criminal, not because he had the IQ and processing speed of a three-toed sloth on barbiturates.

My parents were minutes away from finding out that their sixteen-year-old only child was dating a grown man with no job and no car and no brain cells and bad teeth and oh, by the way, he also has a fucking penis tattooed on his head.

Then, he smiled. And my consciousness came crashing back down to earth, bitch-slapped out of its reverie, by the worst teeth I had ever seen. Fuck, they were bad. You could have parked a double-wide between those discolored front tusks, and the rest of them looked like they were engaged in fisticuffs, scrambling over each other in a desperate attempt to leap from that hellhole—pun fully intended—and finally put an end to their suffering.

And that’s when it occurred to me. Not ten minutes ago, that exact same nipple had been in the baby’s mouth. And a few years ago, it had been in my son’s mouth. So, this is what a family is, I thought. Just a houseful of people who’ve all sucked on your tits. And have also been inside your vagina.

Headlining also meant a higher caliber of groupie—as in, they had enough self-respect to hide their track marks and cutting scars on the insides of their thighs, like ladies. These bitches were bold, too. Entitled even. Opening act groupies were bottom-feeders. Skittish. Easily scared off by a ninety-five-pound nineteen-year-old with a platinum-blonde pixie haircut and one hell of a stink eye. Headliner groupies, on the other hand, were scrappers. They were working on their retirement plans, goddamn it, and they weren’t going to let a little thing like me (or a condom) get between them and eighteen years of rock star–sized child-support checks.

I’ll tell you what that was, Journal. That was divine intervention. Angel Alvarez was a solid buck fifty of Valtrex-and-crystal-meth-fueled trailer-park scrapper. I wouldn’t have stood a chance. I would have been liquefied on impact had I not been blessed with a guardian angel who wasn’t above tripping a bitch, not even a bitch named Angel.

They were horrifying, Journal. Horrifying. These teeth would have made Steve Buscemi blow chunks.

Do yourself a favor, Journal. If you happen to fall in love with a rock star, good for you, Congratulations. Don't marry him. Trust me on this. pg. 168

I floated to school on a magic carpet woven from angel feathers and unicorn manes.

The Four Horseman never came for us. Reality did.

Whenever he wrapped those bulging tattooed arms around me, I felt as though I’d just shrugged on a fur coat made from live puppies that could sing “Lovesong” by The Cure a cappella.

That’s it! Holy shit, Journal! This motherfucker has been acting like a beached porpoise in the sack since the Clinton administration because he was trying to avoid that exact scenario!

That gap-toothed grin destroyed me. Ran me through with medieval brutality. It wasn’t clean. Or quick. It was slow and jagged and splintered as it pierced my heart, twisting on the way in, dragging on the way out. It left a million brittle shards behind, ensuring that I would never ever forget who that organ belonged to. Darby Collins. The only person who ever smiled when they saw me.

While they were spreading their ass cheeks for strangers on a nude beach, I was busy scrubbing skid marks out of my son’s Batman underwear. I hope whoever wound up blowing them had thrush and beard crabs.

My brief, uneventful life flashed before my eyes. So, this is how it all ends, I thought. Bludgeoned to death by a skinhead’s penis in my ex-boyfriend’s childhood bedroom. And I never even got to meet Billy Idol.

I absentmindedly picked up the dusty old tube of lube and flipped it over, curious to see if that AOL-era shit had an expiration date printed anywhere. Just as I suspected, I saw June 12, 2009. That goo was so old

She sighs and drops the attitude. It only lasts a second, but in that moment, I see the real Rain. Underneath all those fake smiles and that sassy attitude is a black ocean of sadness crashing against a crumbling lighthouse of hope.

Oh! OH! Then, after dinner, when I backed Ken into our bedroom so that I could say thanks by riding his lifeless body for a few minutes, he actually stopped me and asked if I wanted to try anything new. NEW! (As in, new to him, obviously. For a sex act to be new to me it would require a stolen college mascot uniform, twelve yards of rappelling cable, a handful of gerbils, and thirty CCs of vampire blood.) And it was really good, Sara! The TV wasn’t even on or anything!

According to my interpersonal relationship professor, there was a name for what Hans and I had-fatal attraction. It's phenomenon where the very qualities that attract you to someone, in turn, causes the death of the relationship. pg. 139

Before every meal, my grandfather would toast, "If I had a ticket to heaven and you didn't have on, too, I'd tear my ticket to pieces and go to hell with you" They were like real live leprechauns. Full of mischief and whimsy, those two. pg. 226

I felt latex-covered fingers gently move my arm to my side. I felt a metal contraption clamp down firmly, but not painfully, onto my right nipple. Then I heard Knight’s deep voice say, “Three… two…” just before a white-hot pain slashed through my soul.

Women have cultural permission to criticize ourselves, but we are punished if we praise ourselves, if we dare to say that we like ourselves the way we are.4 And it’s messing with our orgasms, our pleasure, our desire, and our sexual satisfaction.” Excerpt From Come as You Are: Revised and Updated This material may be protected by copyright.

I was going to dedicate this book to my husband, but seeing as how he doesn't know and must never, ever find out that it exists, I decided to dedicate it to you, my dear sweet reader, instead. 44 Chapters About 4 Men

I was on the cusp of a rapid transformation from girl to deviant sex goddess-I just didn't know it yet. 44 Chapters About 4 Men pg. 31

This mother-fucker was a lover. 44 Chapters About 4 Men pg. 31

Si l’amour avait un parfum, ce serait celui de la crème à la vanille

I like men who look like they were just dismissed from a police lineup, preferably the young, hard-bodied B-and-E suspects who clear the six-foot mark painted on the cinder-block wall and are only let go because their tattoos don’t match the victim’s description.

Besides being a locally infamous bad boy, Harley was a tattooed, twenty-two-year-old mechanic. To a seventeen-year-old highs school senior in the late 1990's, that was basically the equivalent of dating Jordan Catalano

...I grew to associate nicknames with love. Even now, decades later, throw a sweetheart or honey my way, and I'll instantly assume, This person adores me and would clearly give me a kidney if needed.

My parents were peace-loving hippie pot heads, for Christs sake. Nobody ever raised their voices or hands in anger at my house. Hell, most of the time, my parents couldn't even raise their eyelids all the way.

I’ve learned that mirrors and scales lie. They whisper things to your soul that are untrue—about your beauty, about your worth. Typically, the fewer mirrors and scales I encounter, the better.