Cute Sad Quotes

This is my depressed stance. When you're depressed, it makes a lot of difference how you stand. The worst thing you can do is straighten up and hold your head high because then you'll start to feel better. If you're going to get any joy out of being depressed, you've got to stand like this.

I loved him," Remus said. "but he wasn't you

I looked at Mommy but quickly shook my head. "I don't want to miss her." Becky put her soft, warm hand on my shoulder, just like Mommy used to when I was upset. "Your mom wants to be here with you. She wants that very much. But Jesus wants her with him right now." I frowned. "I need her more than Jesus does.

there are some things in life a person just cant know

It didn’t hurt me. Not “hurt”. Hurt is a four letter word. It’s short, almost cute sounding. Aawwww, did that hurt? No. It didn’t hurt. Destroyed, Obliterated, Desecrated, Annihilated, Demolished, Shattered, or Demoralised maybe… But no. It didn’t hurt me. It didn’t “hurt” me at all.

I've decided that it's possible to love someone for entirely selfless reasons, for all of their flaws and weaknesses, and still not succeed in having them love you back. It's sad, perhaps, but not tragic, unless you dwell forever in the pursuit of their elusive affections.

He heaves a deep breath. Wipes a tear away with his thumb. "I'm here, okay?" He grasps my shoulder and squeezes gently. "These aren't platitudes. I'm right here. And I want to listen. Whenever you're sad, I want to hear why. I want to know what you're feeling, all the time, so I can share those feelings with you.

If I had a camera," I said, "I'd take a picture of you every day. That way I'd remember how you looked every single day of your life." "I look exactly the same." "No, you don't. You're changing all the time. Every day a tiny bit. If I could, I'd keep a record of it all." "If you're so smart, how did I change today?" "You got a fraction of a millimeter taller, for one thing. Your hair grew a fraction of a millimeter longer. And your breasts grew a fraction of a—" "They did not!" "Yes, they did." "Did NOT." "Did too." "What else, you big pig?" "You got a little happier and also a little sadder." "Meaning they cancel out each other, leaving me exactly the same." "Not at all. The fact that you got a little happier today doesn't change the fact that you also become a little sadder. Every day you become a little more of both, which means that right now, at this exact moment, you're the happiest and the saddest you've ever been in your whole life." "How do you know?" "Think about it. Have you ever been happier or sadder than right now, lying here in this grass?" "I guess not. No." "And have you ever been sadder?" "No." "It isn't like that for everyone, you know. Some people[...]" "What about you? Are you the happiest and saddest right now that you've ever been?" "Of course I am." "Why?" "Because nothing makes me happier and nothing makes me sadder than you.

I roll my eyes. 'Are you trying to find some sort of reason that I've become such an asshole? The reason is... I'm an asshole. There are some things in life that can't be explained. Period. Assholes are assholes. Rainbows are pretty. Kittens are cute. Chic flicks are sad. It's the way of things, no explanations.

Things are the way they are, but everything has a reason. Kittens are cute because they're tiny fur-balls with smushed faces. Rainbows are pretty because they have every color in the world in them and they're made from refracted light. Chick flicks are sad because chicks sometimes just need a good cry. And assholes are always assholes for a reason.

He touched her cheek. It was colder than the floor had been. “You could give me the past,” he said a little sadly. “But Alec is my future.

I'll love her even if she turns out to be cruel. That's my curse.

You little fool. You thought you could defeat the most powerful being on Earth.

I hate being a teenager." "Why?" "Hormones." With a sad half smile, he left.

That’s what you like in a girl: cute and sad, with enough disorders that you could count them to fall asleep. The kind you can show off at parties as the latest broken thing you fixed. Where will you hang your awards for loving someone who can’t walk in a straight line without being supported? Is there room next to your collection of glasses you shattered by holding them too tightly? The blood on your hands does not make you a martyr. Do not curse when your hammers do nothing but scar her. Do not use your words to remind her that everybody else would have left by now. If she could speak, she would tell you: you think it’s beautiful to love somebody as light as me but you don’t know how heavy I had to be to become this empty.

No Tyson, the guy in the story did not attract the attention of a moose. Tyson is sad now.

I’m glad I married you too, Harper,” I whispered into her hair, “because I’m in love with you.” But she didn’t hear, gone into a dream.

There's a lot you can do with a name like Amelia. You can play with it, sure, is what you think I'm going to say. Make it cute (Amy), or cuter (Millie), complaining (Meelie), or French, I guess, like the movie (Amélie). You can step right into that name, is what I mean, and walk around. Swim with it or spill it on your shirt. Whisper it over like a sad, soft ache, or bark it out aloud like a mad, manic message: camellia, come heee-re, a-million, ah murder you, ye-eah.

John Lennon: The only reason I didn't torture Dick Rowe was because Paul asked me not to. And when Paulie gives you those sad puppy-dog eyes, well, it's hard to refuse him...and it has nothing to do with hypnosis. There's a reason people call him the Cute fookin' Beatle.

The hours tick by as I lie in bed. Memories keep surfacing, tormenting me into unbelievable sadness. I can't bring myself to move. I can't fight the memories that keep filling my thoughts. I stay curled in the fetal position as each memory plays out. I can't stop them from coming. I can't make them go away. Nothing can distract me. I can't block the memories, so they continue to come.

I'm not going to die. Because I'm the one who will protect you!

I’M SORRY I am developing a new board game. It’s called “I’m Sorry.” It’s also a form of “Self-Help Psychological Therapy!” You take turns moving around the board like Monopoly. But if you land on a Yellow or Green “I’m Sorry Space”… you have to make a Phone call. Both green and yellow cards are labeled- the same with things like: Your Ex, Parental figure, friend, co-worker, boss, children, etc. You get the point… If you land on the yellow space, the game stops, everyone gets quiet and you have to call that person up – on speakerphone. You apologize for something you’ve done in your past. Come on you know you are not perfect and you probably screwed up, hurt or disappointed everyone in your past at one time or another. So you call and you apologize. You explain what you did to them wrong if they forgive you, you move forward 10 places and everyone cheers! No forgiveness back- you move back to the beginning. If you land on the green space- it’s similar. But you call the person up and you try to explain to them how, in someway, they hurt you in the past. If they apologize… cheers and you move forward 10 spaces. No apology… move backward ten spaces. They curse at you- game over. In the original packaging of the yellow and green cards, are mixed in a set of “I’m Sorry Cards.” If you are lucky enough to get to pick up an “I’m Sorry Card,” it’s like a Get Out of Jail Free Card, and you don’t have to make the call. The only catch is that the cards come hermetically sealed. After opening up the package, and the cards are exposed to air, all of the “I’m Sorry Cards,” magically turn into “Deal With it Cards!” And so, you really never get a free ride. In reality, every time you pick up a yellow or green card, you have to- Deal with It! Of course you can always order a new factory set of sealed of “I’m Sorry Cards.” But they only last about 30 minutes and are very expensive, so you’ll have to play fast. Cute Game? Hey, don’t steal my idea!!!

If reincarnation is real, I hope I'm not a human next time. But I don't want to be a dog or cat. Because there are still "cute" ones and "not cute" ones. If I do get reborn, then I, I want to just rock gently on the ocean waves. I want to be a jellyfish.

Even if I die, you keep living okay? Live to see the end of this world, and to see why it was born. Live to see why a weak girl like me ended up here... And the reason you and I met.

Because of this. Because your funny. Because you know Lolita. And Nabukov and James Mason too. Because you're cute and funny and i'm kind of sad and you haven't tried hitting on me once. Because you weren't even trying...

Even if I die you keep living okay? Live to see the end of this world, and to see why it was born. Live to see why a weak girl like me ended up here... and the reason why you and I met.

Where are we—” Kyungsoo yelps as Jongin practically throws him over the window pane of a filthy-rich looking convertible, a treacherous little thing parked up against the curb, all black exteriors and plush white interiors, not even bothering to open the door, “going?” “To see fireflies,” Jongin says muffling coughs in his sleeves, and it’s only when Kyungsoo buckles up and looks over does he realize that the boy is grinning from ear to ear, “Real ones.

Rob opened the door, and a tiny kitten ran out. It stopped to sniff Rob‟s ankle and arched its back, spitting tiny kitty defiance at him. Rob scooped it up. The tiny black bundle barely filled his palm. Dark as ink, the only mark on it was a tiny white spot between its eyes. Rob looked up from the kitten to meet Jamie‟s wide-eyed attempt at innocence. "There was a cat in my closet." "I can explain," Jamie offered. Rob returned to the bed. He dropped the kitten in Jamie‟s lap, causing it to poke unfortunate things with tiny needle claws. "Damn!" Jamie yelped, grabbing the kitten and putting a sheet between his delicate parts and danger. "I took out the trash yesterday, and there she was almost buried in a snow bank shivering." "It was ninety degrees yesterday, and there is no snow." Rob sat down on the edge of the bed. "Aren‟t you supposed to hate cats?" Jamie cuddled the tiny creature in his hands. It wrestled with his fingers. "That‟s dogs. I‟m not a dog, I‟m a wolf. There might not have been a snow bank, but it was dirty and hungry and very sad.

What I can’t let go of is the way I tried just now to tell my mum my world was falling apart, and she left.

Where the veil broke, you could see silvery clouds on which tall angels might stand. Not cute little Christmas angels, but high, stern angels in white robes, whose faces were sad and serious from being near God all day and hearing His decisions about the world.

I missed all the people and places I didn’t know if I would ever see again – my grandparents and their cute little house at Basin Head, where we used to visit the beach everyday and I would run barefoot over the singing sands and swim in the impossibly enormous ocean.

We got passes, till midnight after the parade. I met Muriel at the Biltmore at seven. Two drinks, two drugstore tuna-fish sandwiches, then a movie she wanted to see, something with Greer Garson in it. I looked at her several times in the dark when Greer Garson’s son’s plane was missing in action. Her mouth was opened. Absorbed, worried. The identification with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer tragedy complete. I felt awe and happiness. How I love and need her undiscriminating heart. She looked over at me when the children in the picture brought in the kitten to show to their mother. M. loved the kitten and wanted me to love it. Even in the dark, I could sense that she felt the usual estrangement from me when I don’t automatically love what she loves. Later, when we were having a drink at the station, she asked me if I didn’t think that kitten was ‘rather nice.’ She doesn’t use the word ‘cute’ any more. When did I ever frighten her out of her normal vocabulary? Bore that I am, I mentioned R. H. Blyth’s definition of sentimentality: that we are being sentimental when we give to a thing more tenderness than God gives to it. I said (sententiously?) that God undoubtedly loves kittens, but not, in all probability, with Technicolor bootees on their paws. He leaves that creative touch to script writers. M. thought this over, seemed to agree with me, but the ‘knowledge’ wasn’t too very welcome. She sat stirring her drink and feeling unclose to me. She worries over the way her love for me comes and goes, appears and disappears. She doubts its reality simply because it isn’t as steadily pleasurable as a kitten. God knows it is sad. The human voice conspires to desecrate everything on earth.

Are you trying to find some sort of reason that I've become such an asshole? The reason is... I'm an asshole. There are some things in life that can't be explained. Period. Assholes are assholes. Rainbows are pretty. Kittens are cute. Chick flicks are sad. It's the way of things, no explanations.

I'm tired of people using their cars as biographical information centers, informing the world of their sad-sack lives and boring interests. Keep that shit to yourself. I don't want to know what college you went to, who you intend to vote for or what your plan is for world peace. I don't care if you visited the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore or the birthplace of Wink Martindale. And I'm not interested in what radio station you listen to or what bands you like. In fact, I'm not interested in you in any way, except to see you in my rearview mirror. Furthermore, I can do without your profession of faith in God, Allah, Jehova, Yahweh, Peter Cottonail or whoever the fuck it is you've turned your life over to; please keep your superstitions private. I can't tell how happy it would make me to someday drive up to a flaming auto wreck and see smoke curling up around one of those little fish symbols with Jesus written inside it. And as far as I'm concerned you can include the Darwin/fish-with-feet-evolution symbol too. Far too cute for my taste. So keep the personal and autobiographical messages to yourself. Here's an idea: maybe you could paste them up inside your car, where you can see them and I can't.

But I knew it wasn't just the cute girl on the screen that had made Eunice cry. It was her father laughing, being kind, the family momentarily loving and intact - a cruel side trip into the impossible, an alternate history. The dinner was over. The waiters were clearing the table with resignation and without a word. I knew that, according to tradition, I had to allow Dr. Park to pay for the meal, but I went into my apparat and transferred him three hundred yuan, the total of the bill, out of an unnamed account. I did not want his money. Even if my dreams were realised and I would marry Eunice someday, Dr. Park would always remain to me a stranger. After thirty-nine years of being alive, I had forgiven my own parents for not knowing how to care for a child, but that was the depth of my forgiveness.

Well Abby, it’s not as simple as that. I hate to see you sad sweetheart, but it’s not that bad of a deal just having mommy is it? Are you not happy with me?” I hoped that this would throw her off her the questioning for a little while. It’s not that I never thought about dating, actually I take that back, it’s exactly that and I didn’t know how to get my mindset any differently. Abby looked at me, her baby blues delving deep into my soul “But, you deserve to be happy, too.” she whispered.

He knew that people were staring at him. He looked different. Even different from other Erasers. He wasn't as —seamless. He didn't look as human as the rest of them did when they weren't morphed. He kind of looked morphy all the time. He hadn't seen his plain real face in —a long time. "I know who you are." Ari almost jumped —he hadn't noticed the boy slide onto the bench next to him. He frowned down at the small, open face. "What?" he growled. This was when the little boy would get scared and probably turn and run. It always happened. The boy smiled. "1 know who you are," he said, pointing at Ari happily. Ari just snarled at him. The boy wiggled with excitement. "You're Wolverine!" Ari stared at him. "You look awesome, dude," said the boy. "You're totally my favorite. You're the strongest one of all of them and the coolest too. I wish 1 was like you." Ari almost gagged. No one had ever, ever said anything like that to him.

I don't care if you ever think about me at all. I'll think about you instead.

You just seem so sad,” I said, dialing voice mail. “Like someone stole your favorite nine millimeter.” “I’m not sad.” He started down the hall, then turned back. “Least not when I look at you.” .

When Tommy walked forlornly home a short while later, Rudy tried what appeared to be a masterful new tactic. Pity. On the step, he perused the mud that had dried as a crusty sheet on his uniform, then looked Liesel hopelessly in the face. “What about it, Saumensch?” “What about what?” “You know. . . .” Liesel responded in the usual fashion. “Saukerl,” she laughed, and she walked the short distance home. A disconcerting mixture of mud and pity was one thing, but kissing Rudy Steiner was something entirely different. Smiling sadly on the step, he called out, rummaging a hand through his hair. “One day,” he warned her. “One day, Liesel!

Yay, science.

If people were rain i was drizzle and she was a hurrican.

What I can’t let go of is the way I tried just now to tell my mum my world was falling apart, and she Ieft

We're going to get ice cream,' Finny says. 'I'm being kidnapped,' I say.

I'll be right here. Good luck, or break a leg, or something.” As Jay and Gregory turned and headed into the crowd, my traitorous eyes returned to the corner and found another pair or eyes staring darkly back. I dropped my gaze for three full seconds, and then lifted my eyes again, hesitant. The drummer was still staring at me, oblivious to the three girls trying to win back his attention. He put up one finger at the girls and said something that looked like, “Excuse me.” Oh, my goodness. Was he...? Oh, no. Yes, he was walking this way. My nerves shot into high alert. I looked around, but nobody else was near. When I looked back up, there he was, standing right in front of me. Good gracious, he was sexy-a word that had not existed in my personal vocabulary until that moment. This guy was sexy like it was his job or something. He looked straight into my eyes, which threw me off guard, because nobody ever looked me in the eye like that. Maybe Patti and Jay, but they didn't hold my stare like he was doing now. He didn't look away, and I found that I couldn't take my gaze off those blue eyes. “Who are you?” he asked in a blunt, almost confrontational way. I blinked. It was the strangest greeting I'd ever received. “I'm...Anna.” “Right. Anna. How very nice.” I tried to focus on his words and not his luxuriously accented voice, which made everything sound lovely. He leaned in closer. “But who are you?” What did that mean? Did I need to have some sort of title or social standing to enter his presence? “I just came with my friend Jay?” Oh, I hated when I got nervous and started talking in questions. I pointed in the general direction of the guys, but he didn't take his eyes off me. I began rambling. “They just wrote some songs. Jay and Gregory. That they wanted you to hear. Your band, I mean. They're really...good?” His eyes roamed all around my body, stopping to evaluate my sad, meager chest. I crossed my arms. When his gaze landed on that stupid freckle above my lip, I was hit by the scent of oranges and limes and something earthy, like the forest floor. It was pleasant in a masculine way. “Uh-huh.” He was closer to my face now, growling in that deep voice, but looking into my eyes again. “Very cute. And where is your angel?” My what? Was that some kind of British slang for boyfriend? I didn't know how to answer without continuing to sound pitiful. He lifted his dark eyebrows, waiting. “If you mean Jay, he's over there talking to some man in a suit. But he's not my boyfriend or my angel or whatever.” My face flushed with heat and I tightened my arms over my chest. I'd never met anyone with an accent like his, and I was ashamed of the effect it had on me. He was obviously rude, and yet I wanted him to keep talking to me. It didn't make any sense. His stance softened and he took a step back, seeming confused, although I still couldn't read his emotions. Why didn't he show any colors? He didn't seem drunk or high. And that red thing...what was that? It was hard not to stare at it. He finally looked over at Jay, who was deep in conversation with the manager-type man. “Not your boyfriend, eh?” He was smirking at me now. I looked away, refusing to answer. “Are you certain he doesn't fancy you?” Kaidan asked. I looked at him again. His smirk was now a naughty smile. “Yes,” I assured him with confidence. “I am.” “How do you know?” I couldn't very well tell him that the only time Jay's color had shown mild attraction to me was when I accidentally flashed him one day as I was taking off my sweatshirt, and my undershirt got pulled up too high. And even then it lasted only a few seconds before our embarrassment set in.

I didn't know. All I know was that the sex was terrific. And that the hippie was cute. She loved sweet pickles. She liked the name Willie. She even liked Apocalypse Now. She was not a vegeterian. These were all on the plus side. But, once I introduced her to my friends, at the time, and they were all stuck-up asshole Lit majors and they made fun of her and she understoond what was going on and her eyes, usually blue, too blue, vacant, were sad. And I protected her. I took her away from them. ('Spell Pynchon,' they asked her, cracking up.) And she introduced me to her friends. And we ended up sitting on some Japanese pillows in her room and we all smoked some pot and this little hippie girl with a wreath on her head, looked at me as I held her and said, "The world blows my mind'. And you know what? I fucked her anyway.

We hurt one another. We go through life dressing up in new clothes and covering up our true motives. We meet up lightly, we drink rosé wine, and then we give each other pain. We don't want to! What we want to do, what one really wants to do is put out one's hands—like some dancer, in a trance, just put out one's hands—and touch all the people and tell them: I'm sorry. I love you. Thank you for your e-mail. Thank you for coming to see me. Thank you. But we can't. We can't. On the little life raft of Mark only one other person could fit. Just one! And so, thwarted, we inflict pain. That’s what we do. We do not keep each other company. We do not send each other cute text messages. Or, rather, when we do these things, we do them merely to postpone the moment when we'll push these people off, and beat forward, beat forward on our little raft, alone.

Try it! You might like it !! I wrote this letter to tell you that I am very, very sorry. When you are mad at me, your face looks like Daddy’s when he smelled that skunk that was hiding in the garage. And this made me very sad. Your face, not the smelly skunk. Are you still mad? Pleeze circle one: YES NO If you are still mad, pleeze accept my sorryness for taking your clock, calling you a sandwich stealer, playing games on your phone and drawing my very cute face on it, and trying to call Price Princess Sugar Plum. I did not reech her. But I did reech a guy named Moe by mistake, and he was not very polite at all. He said if I reech him again he will call the cops. That would be very bad becuz I do not think they serve chicken nuggets in jail. Then I would starve to death, which would not be a very fun time . Anyway, I made this sandwich just for you because I really care about you. I hope you love it! You are my very best friend! After Miss Penelope and Princess Sugar Plum.

Because I will be at your side every moment of every day. When you frown, I will give you mouth-matings until you smile again. When you are sad, I will hold you close until you are happy again. When we sleep, it will be together, under the same furs.

They had such a good meet-cute,” I croak. “What’s a meet-cute?” Peter’s lying on his side now, his head propped up on his elbow. He looks so adorable I could pinch his cheeks, but I refrain from saying so. His head is big enough as it is. “A meet-cute is when the hero and heroine meet for the very first time, and it’s always in a charming way. It’s how you know they’re going to end up together. The cuter the better.” “Like in Terminator, when Reese saves Sarah Connor from the Terminator and he says, ‘Come with me if you want to live.’ Freaking amazing line.” “I mean, sure, I guess that’s technically a meet-cute…I was thinking more like It Happened One Night. We should add that to our list.” “Is that in color or black-and-white?” “Black-and-white.” Peter groans and falls back against the couch cushions. “It’s too bad we don’t have a meet-cute,” I muse. “You jumped me in the hallway at school. I think that’s pretty cute.” “But we already knew each other, so it doesn’t really count.” I frown. “We don’t even remember how we met. How sad.” “I remember meeting you for the first time.” “Nuh-uh. Liar!” “Hey just because you don’t remember something doesn’t mean I don’t. I remember a lot of things.” “Okay, so how did we meet?” I challenge. I’m sure that whatever comes out of his mouth next will be a lie. Peter opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. “I’m not telling.” “See! You just can’t think of anything.” “No, you don’t deserve to know, because you don’t believe me.” I roll my eyes. “So full of it.

I rode Caro's bike down a hill with no hands, and then I went sock shopping because I was sad to say goodbye to Alfred, and the socks were cute, but there was this purple lace bra." She ground to a halt, cheeks steaming. "It was the same color as Alfred.

Still, I was thinking that this was all wrong, despite feeling so nice, for once again one of my most sacred and deepest erotic fantasies was brutally being shattered, and once more it was all because of Ami. After all, it had been one of my fondest dreams, as a teenager, to lie in bed cuddling with a cute girl, or even with Yumi. Of course, in those many imaginations, we were both naked and we were having wild passionate sex as well as cuddling, but there before me at that very moment was the sad pathetic reality.

We can’t help but coo and clap our hands at the so-cute things of this world. At the ducks, oh my god, look at the ducks, so cute. At the sky, oh my god, look at the sky, so cute. At the tall buildings reflecting the sun setting, look how shiny shiny they are. Homeless man don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, that causes an owie inside. No, do look, it’s sad. Makes you think, makes you deep. Our mothers always said to look hard at the things of this world that are owies on the eyes because they will put more colors in your inner rainbow.

So when you guys get married and she squeezes out a litter of brats for you, you're going to have to come up with a better meet-cute than that. I don't think the kids will want to hear that you held mommy's hair while she puked up pills. I'm no expert but I could see that scarring a kid. You know, maybe pep it up. You two locked eyes at a Blockbuster video and you were fucking done for. Then they'll ask what the fuck a Blockbuster is and you can move on to other subjects." "Frate," Edison said, brows raised like he thought the man was out of his fucking mind. Which he was, so it was a valid thought. "Who the fuck did you trade your balls into for the information about what a meet-cute is? First fucking Cyrus with his Michael Bublé, now this fuck with his rom-com comments? We're a sad excuse for bikers at this point.

Dear Peter, I miss you. It’s only been five days but I miss you like it’s been five years. Maybe because I don’t know if this is just it, if you and I will ever talk again. I mean I’m sure we’ll say hi in chem class, or in the hallways, but will it ever be like it was? That’s what makes me sad. I felt like I could say anything to you. I think you felt the same way. I hope you did. So I’m just going to say anything to you right now, while I’m still feeling brave. What happened between us in the hot tub scared me. I know it was just a day in the life of Peter for you, but for me it meant a lot more, and that’s what scared me. Not just what people were saying about it, and me, but that it happened at all. How easy it was, how much I liked it. I got scared and I took it out on you and for that I’m truly sorry. And at the recital party, I’m sorry I didn’t defend you to Josh. I should have. I know I owed you that much. I owed you that much and more. I still can’t believe you came, and that you brought those fruitcake cookies. You looked cute in your sweater, by the way. I’m not saying that to butter you up. I mean it. Sometimes I like you so much I can’t stand it. It fills up inside me, all the way to the brim, and I feel like I could overflow. I like you so much I don’t know what to do with it. My heart beats so fast when I know I’m going to see you again. And then, when you look at me the way you do, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Those things Josh said about you, they weren’t true. You haven’t brought me down. Just the opposite. You’ve brought me out. You gave me my first love story, Peter. Please just don’t let it be over yet. Love, Lara Jean

I think of Acadian cussing as a form of bilingual folk poetry. I take a pwerless battery from my boat to the local garage, and Claude Poirier shakes his head sadly as he announces his diagnosis: 'C'est tout fucké, ça.' 'He's so goddamn cute!' says an Acadian grandmother adoringly, cradling her baby grandson. 'I could just squeeze the fuckin' shit right outta him.' Perhaps my favourite line of all is a disgusted Acadian's declaration that 'That fuckin' t'ing is fuckin' well fucked.

He feels a nausea of distaste for them all; then sudden rage. Damn all food. Damn all life. He would like to abandon his shopping-cart, although it's already full of provisions.But that would make extra work for the clerks, and one of them is cute. The alternative, to put the whole lot back in the proper places himself, seems like a labour of Hercules; for the overpowering sloth of sadness is upon him. The sloth that ends in going to bed and staying there until you develop some disease.

Because it is the truth that will set us free. Sadly, too many of us in the church don't live like we believe this. We live as if we are afraid acknowledging the past will tighten the chains of injustice rather than break them. We live as if the ghosts of the past will snatch us if we walk through the valley of the shadow of death. So instead we walk around the valley, talk around the valley. We speak of the valley with cute euphemisms: "We just have so many divisions in this country." "If we could just get better at diversity, we'd be so much better off." "We are experiencing some cultural change." Our only chance at dismantling racial injustice is being more curious about its origins than we are worried about our comfort. It's not comfortable conversation for any of us. It is risky and messy. It is haunting work to recall the sings of our past. But is this not the work we have been called to anyway? Is this not the work of the Holy Spirit to illuminate truth and inspire transformation?

Immediately after leaving the gate we encountered a bunch of raggedly dressed street kids. They blinked sad brown eyes and held out their hands begging for money, but we ignored them. Dan flashed us an accusing look, as if we were heartless bastards. He fished some coins out of his pocket, and tossed them to the children. A frantic mob of kids immediately overwhelmed Dan, hopping up and down, clamoring for money. Dan finally broke free from the grasping children, and we set off down the street. Suddenly, Dan stopped dead in his tracks, belatedly realizing his expensive scuba diving watch was missing. While we laughed and said, “I told you so!” Dan rubbed his naked wrist and stomped around the street in disbelief, bemoaning the loss of his watch. Then an innocent looking little boy timidly approached Dan. Obviously feeling sorry for the kind-hearted American, the cute little ragamuffin timidly spoke, “Mister, I know who stole your watch. Give me a hundred pesos and I’ll get it back for you.” Dan breathed a sigh of relief, thanked the little angel profusely, and gave him a hundred pesos worth eight American dollars. The little boy quickly scuttled into the crowd never to be seen again. We laughed so hard we were choking. Dan had just set a new chump record, losing an expensive watch and a hundred pesos all within minutes of leaving the base. We dragged him into the nearest bar to console him with cold San Miguel beer.

I've dreamed about you my whole life, but I never imagined you were real. I should have known what you were, but it honestly never occurred to me. I don't know if I should be happy or sad that you're one of us. It doesn't make any sense for us to meet again, but I saw you and I can't unsee you now. All I can think about is that you're here, somewhere in the city. It makes me want to burn down every building between us until all that's left is you and me. I think the less I know about you, the safer you'll be, but I can't shake this feeling that there's a reason I've been drawing you since I was old enough to hold a crayon. I need to hear from you. Tell me you hate me. Tell me to go to hell. Anything. Just write me back. Ajax

BEST FRIENDS SHOULD BE TOGETHER We’ll get a pair of those half-heart necklaces so every ask n’ point reminds us we are one glued duo. We’ll send real letters like our grandparents did, handwritten in smart cursive curls. We’ll extend cell plans and chat through favorite shows like a commentary track just for each other. We’ll get our braces off on the same day, chew whole packs of gum. We’ll nab some serious studs but tell each other everything. Double-date at a roadside diner exactly halfway between our homes. Cry on shoulders when our boys fail us. We’ll room together at State, cover the walls floor-to-ceiling with incense posters of pop dweebs gone wry. See how beer feels. Be those funny cute girls everybody’s got an eye on. We’ll have a secret code for hot boys in passing. A secret dog named Freshman Fifteen we’ll have to hide in the rafters during inspection. Follow some jam band one summer, grooving on lawns, refusing drugs usually. Get tattoos that only spell something when we stand together. I’ll be maid of honor in your wedding and you’ll be co-maid with my sister but only cause she’d disown me if I didn’t let her. We’ll start a store selling just what we like. We’ll name our firstborn daughters after one another, and if our husbands don’t like it, tough. Lifespans being what they are, we’ll be there for each other when our men have passed, and all the friends who come to visit our assisted living condo will be dazzled by what fun we still have together. We’ll be the kind of besties who make outsiders wonder if they’ve ever known true friendship, but we won’t even notice how sad it makes them and they won’t bring it up because you and I will be so caught up in the fun, us marveling at how not-good it never was.

Mom,” Vaughn said. “I’m sure Sidney doesn’t want to be interrogated about her personal life.” Deep down, Sidney knew that Vaughn—who’d obviously deduced that she’d been burned in the past—was only trying to be polite. But that was the problem, she didn’t want him to be polite, as if she needed to be shielded from such questions. That wasn’t any better than the damn “Poor Sidney” head-tilt. “It’s okay, I don’t mind answering.” She turned to Kathleen. “I was seeing someone in New York, but that relationship ended shortly before I moved to Chicago.” “So now that you’re single again, what kind of man are you looking for? Vaughn?” Kathleen pointed. “Could you pass the creamer?” He did so, then turned to look once again at Sidney. His lips curved at the corners, the barest hint of a smile. He was daring her, she knew, waiting for her to back away from his mother’s questions. She never had been very good at resisting his dares. “Actually, I have a list of things I’m looking for.” Sidney took a sip of her coffee. Vaughn raised an eyebrow. “You have a list?” “Yep.” “Of course you do.” Isabelle looked over, surprised. “You never told me about this.” “What kind of list?” Kathleen asked interestedly. “It’s a test, really,” Sidney said. “A list of characteristics that indicate whether a man is ready for a serious relationship. It helps weed out the commitment-phobic guys, the womanizers, and any other bad apples, so a woman can focus on the candidates with more long-term potential.” Vaughn rolled his eyes. “And now I’ve heard it all.” “Where did you find this list?” Simon asked. “Is this something all women know about?” “Why? Worried you won’t pass muster?” Isabelle winked at him. “I did some research,” Sidney said. “Pulled it together after reading several articles online.” “Lists, tests, research, online dating, speed dating—I can’t keep up with all these things you kids are doing,” Adam said, from the head of the table. “Whatever happened to the days when you’d see a girl at a restaurant or a coffee shop and just walk over and say hello?” Vaughn turned to Sidney, his smile devilish. “Yes, whatever happened to those days, Sidney?” She threw him a look. Don’t be cute. “You know what they say—it’s a jungle out there. Nowadays a woman has to make quick decisions about whether a man is up to par.” She shook her head mock reluctantly. “Sadly, some guys just won’t make the cut.” “But all it takes is one,” Isabelle said, with a loving smile at her fiancé. Simon slid his hand across the table, covering hers affectionately. “The right one.” Until he nails his personal trainer. Sidney took another sip of her coffee, holding back the cynical comment. She didn’t want to spoil Isabelle and Simon’s idyllic all-you-need-is-love glow. Vaughn cocked his head, looking at the happy couple. “Aw, aren’t you two just so . . . cheesy.” Kathleen shushed him. “Don’t tease your brother.” “What? Any moment, I’m expecting birds and little woodland animals to come in here and start singing songs about true love, they’re so adorable.” Sidney laughed out loud. Quickly, she bit her lip to cover.

Can't Hold Us Down" (feat. Lil' Kim) So what am I not supposed to have an opinion Should I be quiet just because I'm a woman Call me a bitch cos I speak what's on my mind Guess it's easier for you to swallow if I sat and smiled When a female fires back Suddenly big talker don't know how to act So he does what any little boy would do Making up a few false rumors or two That for sure is not a man to me Slanderin' names for popularity It's sad you only get your fame through controversy But now it's time for me to come and give you more to say This is for my girls all around the world Who've come across a man who don't respect your worth Thinking all women should be seen, not heard So what do we do girls? Shout out loud! Letting them know we're gonna stand our ground Lift your hands high and wave them proud Take a deep breath and say it loud Never can, never will, can't hold us down Nobody can hold us down Nobody can hold us down Nobody can hold us down Never can, never will So what am I not supposed to say what I'm saying Are you offended by the message I'm bringing Call me whatever cos your words don't mean a thing Guess you ain't even a man enough to handle what I sing If you look back in history It's a common double standard of society The guy gets all the glory the more he can score While the girl can do the same and yet you call her a whore I don't understand why it's okay The guy can get away with it & the girl gets named All my ladies come together and make a change Start a new beginning for us everybody sing This is for my girls all around the world Who've come across a man who don't respect your worth Thinking all women should be seen, not heard What do we do girls? Shout Out Loud! Letting them know we're gonna stand our ground Lift your hands high and wave 'em proud Take a deep breath and say it loud Never can, never will, can't hold us down [Lil' Kim:] Check it - Here's something I just can't understand If the guy have three girls then he's the man He can either give us some head, sex a roar If the girl do the same, then she's a whore But the table's about to turn I'll bet my fame on it Cats take my ideas and put their name on it It's airight though, you can't hold me down I got to keep on movin' To all my girls with a man who be tryin to mack Do it right back to him and let that be that You need to let him know that his game is whack And Lil' Kim and Christina Aguilera got your back But you're just a little boy Think you're so cute, so coy You must talk so big To make up for smaller things So you're just a little boy All you'll do is annoy You must talk so big To make up for smaller things This is for my girls... This is for my girls all around the world Who've come across a man who don't respect your worth Thinking all women should be seen, not heard So what do we do girls? Shout out loud! Letting them know we're gonna stand our ground Lift your hands high and wave 'em proud Take a deep breath and say it loud Never can, never will, can't hold us down This is for my girls all around the world Who've come across a man who don't respect your worth Thinking all women should be seen, not heard So what do we do girls? Should out loud! Letting them know we're gonna stand our ground Lift your hands high and wave 'em proud Take a deep breath and say it loud Never can, never will, can't hold us down Spread the word, can't hold us down

joke around—nothing serious—as I work to get my leg back to where it was. Two weeks later, I’m in an ankle-to-hip leg brace and hobbling around on crutches. The brace can’t come off for another six weeks, so my parents lend me their townhouse in New York City and Lucien hires me an assistant to help me out around the house. Some guy named Trevor. He’s okay, but I don’t give him much to do. I want to regain my independence as fast as I can and get back out there for Planet X. Yuri, my editor, is griping that he needs me back and I’m more than happy to oblige. But I still need to recuperate, and I’m bored as hell cooped up in the townhouse. Some buddies of mine from PX stop by and we head out to a brunch place on Amsterdam Street my assistant sometimes orders from. Deacon, Logan, Polly, Jonesy and I take a table in Annabelle’s Bistro, and settle in for a good two hours, running our waitress ragged. She’s a cute little brunette doing her best to stay cheerful for us while we give her a hard time with endless coffee refills, loud laughter, swearing, and general obnoxiousness. Her nametag says Charlotte, and Deacon calls her “Sweet Charlotte” and ogles and teases her, sometimes inappropriately. She has pretty eyes, I muse, but otherwise pay her no mind. I have my leg up on a chair in the corner, leaning back, as if I haven’t a care in the world. And I don’t. I’m going to make a full recovery and pick up my life right where I left off. Finally, a manager with a severe hairdo and too much makeup, politely, yet pointedly, inquires if there’s anything else we need, and we take the hint. We gather our shit and Deacon picks up the tab. We file out, through the maze of tables, and I’m last, hobbling slowly on crutches. I’m halfway out when I realize I left my Yankees baseball cap on the table. I return to get it and find the waitress staring at the check with tears in her eyes. She snaps the black leather book shut when she sees me and hurriedly turns away. “Forget something?” she asks with false cheer and a shaky smile. “My hat,” I say. She’s short and I’m tall. I tower over her. “Did Deacon leave a shitty tip? He does that.” “Oh no, no, I mean…it’s fine,” she says, turning away to wipe her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I just…um, kind of a rough month. You know how it is.” She glances me up and down in my expensive jeans and designer shirt. “Or maybe you don’t.” The waitress realizes what she said, and another round of apologies bursts out of her as she begins stacking our dirty dishes. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Really. I have this bad habit…blurting. I don’t know why I said that. Anyway, um…” I laugh, and fish into my back pocket for my wallet. “Don’t worry about it. And take this. For your trouble.” I offer her forty dollars and her eyes widen. Up close, her eyes are even prettier—large and luminous, but sad too. A blush turns her skin scarlet “Oh, no, I couldn’t. No, please. It’s fine, really.” She bustles even faster now, not looking at me. I shrug and drop the twenties on the table. “I hope your month improves.” She stops and stares at the money, at war with herself. “Okay. Thank you,” she says finally, her voice cracking. She takes the money and stuffs it into her apron. I feel sorta bad, poor girl. “Have a nice day, Charlotte,” I say, and start to hobble away. She calls after me, “I hope your leg gets better soon.” That was big of her, considering what ginormous bastards we’d been to her all morning. Or maybe she’s just doing her job. I wave a hand to her without looking back, and leave Annabelle’s. Time heals me. I go back to work. To Planet X. To the world and all its thrills and beauty. I don’t go back to my parents’ townhouse; hell I’m hardly in NYC anymore. I don’t go back to Annabelle’s and I never see—or think about—that cute waitress with the sad eyes ever again. “Fucking hell,” I whisper as the machine reads the last line of

I don’t believe in love that never ends,” said Aiden, his whisper clear and distinct. “I don’t believe in being true until death or finding the other half of your soul.” Harvard raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Privately, he considered that it might be good that Aiden hadn’t delivered this speech to this guy he apparently liked so much—whom Aiden had never even mentioned to his best friend before now. This speech was not romantic. Once again, Harvard had to wonder if what he’d been assuming was Aiden’s romantic prowess had actually been many guys letting Aiden get away with murder because he was awfully cute. But Aiden sounded upset, and that spoke to an instinct in Harvard natural as breath. He put his arm around Aiden, and drew his best friend close against him, warm skin and soft hair and barely there shirt and all, and tried to make a sound that was more soothing than fraught. “I don’t believe in songs or promises. I don’t believe in hearts or flowers or lightning strikes.” Aiden snatched a breath as though it was his last before drowning. “I never believed in anything but you.” “Aiden,” said Harvard, bewildered and on the verge of distress. He felt as if there was something he wasn’t getting here. Even more urgently, he felt he should cut off Aiden. It had been a mistake to ask. This wasn’t meant for Harvard, but for someone else, and worse than anything, there was pain in Aiden’s voice. That must be stopped now. Aiden kissed him, startling and fierce, and said against Harvard’s mouth, “Shut up. Let me… let me.” Harvard nodded involuntarily, because of the way Aiden had asked, unable to deny Aiden even things Harvard should refuse to give. Aiden’s warm breath was running down into the small shivery space between the fabric of Harvard’s shirt and his skin. It was panic-inducing, feeling all the impulses of Harvard’s body and his heart like wires that were not only crossed but also impossibly tangled. Disentangling them felt potentially deadly. Everything inside him was in electric knots. “I’ll let you do anything you want,” Harvard told him, “but don’t—don’t—” Hurt yourself. Seeing Aiden sad was unbearable. Harvard didn’t know what to do to fix it. The kiss had turned the air between them into dry grass or kindling, a space where there might be smoke or fire at any moment. Aiden was focused on toying with the collar of Harvard’s shirt, Aiden’s brows drawn together in concentration. Aiden’s fingertips glancing against his skin burned. “You’re so warm,” Aiden said. “Nothing else ever was. I only knew goodness existed because you were the best. You’re the best of everything to me.” Harvard made a wretched sound, leaning in to press his forehead against Aiden’s. He’d known Aiden was lonely, that the long line of guys wasn’t just to have fun but tied up in the cold, huge manor where Aiden had spent his whole childhood, in Aiden’s father with his flat shark eyes and sharp shark smile, and in the long line of stepmothers who Aiden’s father chose because he had no use for people with hearts. Harvard had always known Aiden’s father wanted to crush the heart out of Aiden. He’d always worried Aiden’s father would succeed. Aiden said, his voice distant even though he was so close, “I always knew all of you was too much to ask for.” Harvard didn’t know what to say, so he obeyed a wild foolish impulse, turned his face the crucial fraction toward Aiden’s, and kissed him. Aiden sank into the kiss with a faint sweet noise, as though he’d finally heard Harvard’s wordless cry of distress and was answering it with belated reassurance: No, I’ll be all right. We’re not lost. The idea of anyone not loving Aiden back was unimaginable, but it had clearly happened. Harvard couldn’t think of how to say it, so he tried to make the kiss say it. I’m so sorry you were in pain. I never guessed. I’m sorry I can’t fix this, but I would if I could. He didn’t love you, but I do.

I put my hand on his forearm, I don't know why I do this, and it's not exactly natural, although it's not unnatural, except that I really want to touch his skin. It's smooth and tan just a little bit and feels like summer, like something familiar and warm and good, like my skin did on the first days aboard 'Fishful Thinking' before it salted and burned and peeled. 'We broke up three years after that.' I sit back in my chair and give a sly smile. Relationships are complex and sometimes you can't really explain them to an outside party. 'I can't believe I just told you that' 'YES! YOU! ARE! LIVING! YOUR! FULL! LIFE!' A third time. I am not imagining it. 'There you are.' This time my heart does skip a beat. I look down at his arm, and we are still touching, and he has made no attempt to retract his arm or retreat. All my surroundings, the red formica table top, the pink yogurt, the blue sky, the green vegetables in the market, they all come alive in vibrant technicolor as the sun peers from behind a cloud. I am living my full life. 'Honesty in all things,' Byron adds, lifting his cup of yogurt for a toast of sorts. I pull my hand away from him and the instant my hand is back by his side, I miss the warmth of his arm, the warmth of him. Honesty in all things. I should put my hand back, that's where it wants to be, that's Lily's lesson to me. Be present in the moment, give spontaneous affection. I'm suddenly aware I haven't spoken in a bit. 'Did you know that an octopus has three hearts?' As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I realize I sound like that kid from 'Jerry McGuire.' 'Did you know the human head weighs eight pounds?' I hope my question comes off almost a fraction as endearing. 'No,' Byron says with a glint in his eye that reads as curiosity, at least I hope that it does, but even if it doesn't I'm too into the inertia of the trivia to stop it. 'It's true, one heart called the systemic heart that functions much like the left side of the human heart, distributing blood throughout the heart, then two smaller branchial heart with gills that act like the right side of our hearts to pump the blood back.' 'What made you think of that?' I smile. It may be entirely inappropriate first date conversation, but at least it doesn't bore me in the telling. I look up at the winsome August sky, marred only by the contrails of a passing jet, and a vaguely dachshund shaped cloud above the horizon. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in love at first site. I don't believe in angels. I don't believe in heaven and that our loved ones are looking down on us, but the sun is so warm and the breeze is so cool and the company is so perfect and the whole afternoon so intoxicating, ti's hard not to hear Lily's voice dancing in the gentle wind, 'one! month! is Long! Enough TO! BE! SAD!' ... 'I recently lost someone close to me....I don't know, I feel her here today with us, you, me, her, three hearts, like an octopus,' I shrug. If I were him, I would run. What a ridiculously creepy thing to say. I would run and I would not stop until I was home in my bed with a gallon of ice cream deleting my profile from every dating site I belonged to. Maybe it's because it's not rehearsed, maybe it's because it's as weird a thing to say as it is genuine, maybe it's because this is finally the man for me. Byron stands and offers me his hand, 'Let's take a walk and you can tell me about her.' The gentle untying of a shoe lace. It takes me a minute to decide if I can do this, and I decide that I can, and I throw our yogurt dishes away, and I put my hand in his, and it's soft and warm, and instead of awkward fumbling, our hands clasp together like magnets and metal, like we've been hand-in-hand all along, and we are touching again. ...

Kelly had other good friends, too, but they didn’t translate for her into a path of living, the belief that there was a force she could turn to. Friends are friends. So she would turn to me when she got stuck or too sad, and I would give her the same advice God always gives me if I think to ask: Go do some anonymous things for lonely people, give a few bucks to every poor person you see, return phone calls. Get out of yourself and become a person for others, while simultaneously practicing radical self-care: maybe have a bite to eat, check in with the sky twice, buy some cute socks, take a nap.

Show me all your sides, dive with me to your deepest points and guide me to your Everest. I'll always adore the way you are yourself, so don't tell me being sad makes me unhappy or love you less.

But it was impossible to share my feelings of grief with Peggy, because most of the time it was impossible to feel them. My sadness was overwhelmed by fear and visceral disgust and rage, rage so consuming and aimless that sometimes I was afraid of myself. I was convinced that the killer's fury had entered me, and would never leave. I knew that Peggy, my soft-bodied former babysitter, with her houseful of Precious Moments figurines, was not interested in hearing about my rage. She wanted to wipe away the tears of the cute little blond girl she had known. She didn't know what to do with my fear and rage, so she tried to will them to disappear, in favor of a gentler, more manageable sadness.

A black butterfly, confused and mad, Stung at my hand, thinking it was bad. My hand, not mad, just curious and sad, Scared away the butterfly’s little mad attack, Leaving her to settle on a flower’s back. She looked like she had a new plan, no lack Of nerve or spunk in that little black pack.

Those fake blue eyes stared back, mocking me. At least the tears didn’t show. Thank God. Instead, they ducked back into my eyelids as I tucked my sadness back into my core.... The more my mind flew off in one direction, the more my sanity shattered into pieces that no one could sweep up and glue back together.

You could’ve offered the girl a warm place to sleep,” Jack said. “It’s pretty clear Hope didn’t get that old cabin straight for her.” “Don’t feel up to company,” he said. Then Doc lifted his gaze to Jack’s face. “Seems you’re more interested than me, anyway.” “Didn’t really look like she’d trust anyone around here at the moment,” Jack said. “Cute little thing, though, huh?” “Can’t say I noticed,” he said. He took a sip and then said, “Didn’t look like she had the muscle for the job, anyway.” Jack laughed. “Thought you didn’t notice?” But he had noticed. She was maybe five-three. Hundred and ten pounds. Soft, curling blond hair that, when damp, curled even more. Eyes that could go from kind of sad to feisty in an instant. He enjoyed that little spark when she had snapped at him that she didn’t feel particularly humorous. And when she took on Doc, there was a light that suggested she could handle all kinds of things just fine. But the best part was that mouth—that little pink heart-shaped mouth. Or maybe it was the fanny. “Yeah,” Jack said. “You could’ve cut a guy a break and been a little friendlier. Improve the scenery around here.

Sometimes you’re sad, you listen to sad music, you relate to the lyrics, you sulk, and that is alright. Just remember, everything will be fine at the end of the day. Sometimes you’re happy, you write happy positive posts, re-blog cute stuff, you laugh at everything, you feel like celebrating everything, and that’s okay. We have our moments, we’ve all had those days where we feel sad and we have no idea why. You’re entitled to feel what you want to feel at the moment. Don’t let them tell you you have no right to be sad. Don’t let them tell you not to celebrate the small things you have accomplished.

A lányok angyalok. Ideig-óráig. A lányok gonosz kis koboldok, hegyes fülű kegyetlen tündérek, ide-oda repkedő féltékeny giling-galangok. Bort isznak.

My parents always called me Sophie,” she replied, a sad smile touching her lips as she briefly looked up at Cruce. “They said when I was really little I couldn’t pronounce Josephine, that it always just came out as Sophie, and they thought it was so cute that it stuck. I loved it. And, you know…I’m glad I never told him. It’s a piece of me that he’ll never get to have. It’s mine, the one thing he didn’t take.

I still couldn’t believe I was going to live here. With Chase. When I had seen the handwritten advertisement in the general store, I had looked at the address, the location striking a memory. It was the cute mechanic. The one with the sad eyes. I had helped him one night in his drunken state. He had been so adorable, insisting he wasn’t trying to drive. Then he peered at me, getting far too close for it to be comfortable. Yet, with him, I was fine. “You got hit with a cinnamon truck,” he slurred a little. “Little dots ever-ry-where!” He drew out the last word into three syllables. Then he winked. “Are they everywhere, Occifer Cinnamon?” “Gallagher,” I corrected, trying not to laugh at his inappropriateness. “It’s Officer Gallagher.” “To everyone else.” He waved his hand. “To me, you’re Occifer Cinnanum. Cinnamon.” He hiccuped. “Oops.” Then he patted his chest. “Mine.” I bit back my smile. He was utterly endearing. “Can I call someone for you?” I asked. I didn’t want to throw him in the drunk tank. “You could take me home. I wouldn’t tell anyone. We could cuddle. I bet you’d be a good cuddler.

if you think the story has a sad ending, it's because it's not over yet

checked my phone before I went to sleep, squeaking when I found a text waiting for me. Squatter: Sleep well, library mouse. I quickly replied. Me: I’m not a fan of the nickname. Squatter: I thought it was cute. Me: I’m not cute. Squatter: I do not believe that. Me: I don’t care, just don’t call me a mouse! Squatter: I’ll think about it. Me: Good night. Squatter: Good night, angel. I laid my phone down on my nightstand, smiling to myself. I shouldn’t have been. Bella was sad, and the squatter was annoying. But he had called me angel, and that was nice.

Wooof." The reply was soft and there was a sad whimper. "When he's all sad like that, it's kinda cute," Yuriel voiced. "Before he skydives at you,

Some of them were talking about sex and intimacy and some about some cute and romantic dates, and I had nothing. Nothing.

There are certain stereotypes that fit with giving a shit about the planet, and funnily enough these are generally in some way feminine. To be a socially acceptable environmentalist you have to be female, a child, or an eccentric (which itself entails being kind of effeminate, if you are already a man). I have come to the conclusion that this is because environmental issues are perceived to be melodramatic and melodrama belongs to the feminine because women are of course by default hysterical, ‘in touch with nature’, and so easily brought to tears by images of seagulls stuck in Coke cans in conjunction with sad piano music. Melodramatic because there are more pressing issues like terrorists and fascism and the looming employment crisis of the robot workforce, never mind the bees. Women just like animals because they are cute and summon their maternal instinct.

Yeah, of course I hated too. Facebook most of all, if you have to know. Facebook. Hated it. For me that was the epitome of what was wrong with society. ’Cause why, you’ve got all these friends, but they’re not real friends, just people you can post photos for, of your breakfast and your lunch and your cute kitty. I ask you. Like they really cared. They only cared because they needed you as an audience. Facebook friends were an audience, that’s all. And it made me sick how they all needed an audience. Society got so impersonal, so don’t-care, till we had to validate ourselves on something like Facebook, to an audience of people who don’t give a flying . . . Let me just say, that’s sad. Tragic.

The perception is that we are just nurses. We are subject to the same discrimination you are, although perhaps on a different scale. There are a lot of people out there who think nurses are only good to patch up a few scratches, giggle cutely at their jokes, and provide them with a date pool. Many times I'd heard the old adage "if you can't get a date, get a nurse: and despite shrugging it off as an immature comment, I had neither taken their defense nor considered the value these women brought to the table. They were intelligent, driven, and strong women, who we had slotted into a "too soft for serious consideration" category because of their nurturing side. And they were pretty, which muddied the seriousness waters too. How sad for us. By failing to share important information with them, we fell short of tapping into their full potential.

I can see sadness in his eyes as he looks at me. And suddenly I am overwhelmed by wanting to know that sadness and make it go away and make it OK.

When he’s feeling uncertain, Peter does not like to eat treats. Sadly, he tends to feel uncertain whenever a stranger gives him a treat. I think this is very sweet, and that it shows an incredible survival instinct, and I’m proud of him for it, but it makes for some awkward encounters, as he is very cute, and, you see, people with treats are generally excited to give him one. He isn’t rude to them. He allows them the pleasure of placing a treat in his mouth, accepts it gingerly, and delicately places it on the ground in front of him. Very polite. Thank you, but no thank you; I do not know you and furthermore I prefer to take all treats in my treat spot at home, which is the couch.

Mac was slightly sad that his ‘cute’ days were over, if he’d ever had any that was.

It dawns on him that he has crossed over the line that runs between maintaining alcoholic and sloppy, stupid, obnoxious drunk. But at least he is cognizant of it this time; he’ll try to ease off. “Oh, thank you, but I don’t think so. I’ll just finish my drink and go. I have to get up pretty early tomorrow,” she says. They get their drinks and both take long swallows. By now Ben is obscured from himself. He can no longer monitor his actions. He can’t edit himself. Later he will know, but right now he doesn’t, that this is not him. “I really wish that you’d come home with me,” he says, slurring and breaking his words. “Yourso cute, and I’m really good in bed… believe me… yousmell good too.” He stops and frowns. “No, okay,” he mutters into his glass. He swivels on his stool and his arms find the bar for support. She starts to speak and then doesn’t. Looking at him, she gets a look of great sadness in her eyes, sadness so intense that it goes beyond what her face has made you believe she could feel. Ben does not see it, but it is not wasted. It serves more purpose to her than it possibly could to him right now; she did not consciously author it, and she is surprised. “Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much,” she says. “I have to go. Thanks for the drink.” She gets up and walks quickly to the door. Her understatement seems to give him a spark. “Maybe I shouldn’t breathe so much, Teri!” he calls after her. “Ha! ha!” But she is gone. The bartender shakes his head and puts down the glass that he is washing. “Time to go, bud,” he says. “We’re closing up.

Basic plan- be myself, sad cute, depressed. Did I miss much? If not, I'll whack you with a stick to prove I am not weak, small or short.

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