Gehrman Quotes

I despise the rituals of fake friendship. I wish we could just claw each other's eyes out and call it a day; instead we put on huge radiant smiles and spout compliments until our teeth hurt from the saccharine sweetness of it all.

If he’s just not into you anymore, then buy yourself a cute pair of shoes and strut your fabulousness elsewhere.

I tried all kinds of approaches: sexy, friendly, intimidating—nothing worked. I’m starting to think there’s an invisible force field that prevents honest communication between X and Y chromosomes.

I guess sometimes it takes a while for the heart to get the memo from the brain.

The point is, feelings can change - and often do - abruptly. It's one of the riskiest aspects of falling for someone, especially during these tumultuous years when we're young and restless.

Are you mad?" I ask. "I was." He glances at the ceiling then back at me. "Or confused, anyway. The whole thing threw me through for a loop. I thought I'd finally met a guy at Underwood I could relate to, and it turns out he wasn't a guy at all." I swallow. "I can see how that would be weird." "In a way though, I was relieved." "Relieved?" I echo. "Why?" He looks around embarrased. "Let's just say you had me questioning my sexual orientation.

Supposedly, guys think about sex every eight seconds. If that's true, how can they talk to their grandmothers?

She has ESB,” I say. Chloe rolls her eyes. “ESP you mean?” “No, ESB. Extrasensory Bitchyness.

I actually plan to mess up my life and start over every seven years. That way, I’ll never get in a rut. I read somewhere that most of your cells only live about seven years anyway, so in theory you literally are a new person; I figure that’s the best time to start over.

Sometimes, a girl just has to dive under the duvet and regroup.

This party is turning out to be the turd-encrusted cherry on the top of my shit-shake of a day.

I have to say it's the most sizzling, delicious, sublime kiss ever. In the history of human beings. Possibly back to and including dinosaurs.

These guys may not talk too much about relationships, but they sure do blush at telling moments, don’t they? Maybe that’s the key to understanding the opposite sex; I could invent a science, call it blushology.

Maybe illusion and artifice—lies, even—are a necessary part of romance.

Art boy is obviously intimidated. You're like the sun and he's squinting up at you, barely able to see because of your blinking radiance

POKSI (Physically Okay but Socially Inept)

Suddenly, the gods have stopped saying yes and have started making really obnoxious farting noises. In my face. With their armpits.

I think that everyone should have at least a part of them that's self-invented; in fact, the world would be much more interesting if we all created our own identities afresh whenever we felt like it. Otherwise you're just walking around regurgitating what's expected, which is like, why bother?

July 4th, (ie, time to celebrate our freedoms as Americans by eating hormone-laden farm animals and blowing shit up) -Geena (Triple Shot Betty)

Here I've been telling him things in my head for weeks, writing long, frenzied missives to him I know I'll never send, and now that I have him less than two feet away, I'm struck dumb. Fantastic.

All of us have our wires crossed and crisscrossed so many times it's impossible to untangle the mess. It really does seem like the entire human race might as well be conversing with hand gestures and grunts, for all the success we're having.

I sometimes suspect they don't take Dr. Aphrodite very seriously. Which is sad, really. Because what's more serious than love?

The right song can change everything.

Think of it as a life experience," I mumbled. "Isn't your dad always saying we need more of that?" "I don't think prancing around PJ Jamieson's pool in our underwear is exactly what he had in mind.

La-di-dah, just out for a little spin, don't mind me.

From what I've seen, a girl's got to behave like a mental midget before she'll get any action in this town. If resisting that makes me a freak, so be it. I may die with my hymen intact, but at least I'll have my dignity" ~ Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty

He's an intricate, mesmerizing puzzle; I only succeeded at putting the pieces together because for once in my life I observed. I stopped talking long enough to listen - really listen - not just to what's said, but also to everything that goes unspoken.

Sure, okay, I'll pick up some cat litter. Anything else?" "Watch your back, G." Then she hung up. Hero paused in her sobbing to look at me quizzically. "Why does your mom want cat litter? You guys don't even have a cat." "She uses it for..." I searched my brain madly, but all I could come up with was "teaching." "She uses cat litter to teach English?" I nodded. "She's kind of unconventional in her methods." Hero frowned. "But how does she use it?" The girl was relentless when she fixated on something. "Um, when their papers are really bad, she gives them a little bag of cat litter. It's her way of telling them their writing is crap." I laughed. "She's kooky.

All I have to do is shoot! In my excitement, I throw the ball down with more force than ever, feeling bad-ass. It ricochets off the floor at an angle and slams right into my crotch. All around me, the room goes, “Ohhhh!” I look up. Every face is staring at me, contorted into winces. Right. Ball in crotch equals excruciating pain. I’m such an idiot! Too late, I double over in pain. “Ouch!” I yell. I sneak a glance around. Nobody looks convinced, so I add, “My balls!

Guys do have a language, and it does express emotion with startling clarity and nuance. The idea that they don’t express their feelings is as absurd as traveling to a foreign country and claiming the natives can’t speak simply because you don’t understand what they’re saying.

Yeah, I usually breathe. It comes sort of naturally to me. If I forget, asphyxiation’s a handy reminder.

I hope the people I hurt can see past the prank to the very real respect and affection I feel for them. If not, I may have to take my own advice, buy myself some cute shoes and march on. I hope that's not how it ends, though. I hope this boy-meets-girl-pretending-to-be-boy story has a happy ending, one with less bitter and more sweet.

It’s like going into the ring against Ali when all I’ve done to train is eat doughnuts and binge-watch Rocky.

Come on Geena. Dude's slippery as hell. He could talk his way out of a blow job in the Oval Office.

You think you’ve disappeared, and then someone comes along and says, ‘I see you. I want you.’” “Yes,” I whisper, glad she understands. “It’s crack,” she says, smiling. “Pure fucking crack.

Went home briefly to get my halter dress for Hero's party, and Mom was waiting for me at the kitchen table. Either she's psychic, or she totally reads my journal, because I haven't said a word about Ben, but somehow she knows something is up. She was siting with a tray of peanut butter crackers, milk, and about twenty pamphlets on STDs she got from her friend Connie, a nurse at Kaiser. When she started showing me pictures of genital warts, I put my cracker down and said, 'Mom, is this really necessary?' She said, 'Honey, I just want you to understand the risks.' 'Yeah, thanks. Now I'm so traumatized I won't have sex until I'm a senior citizen.' She smiled. 'Great. I guess I've done my job then. Do you want a sandwich.

—Las chicas deberían ser sólo quienes son, sabes. ¿Es demasiado pedir?

I guess since he keeps on kissing me I'm not a total failure at it; he's never pulled away in horror or gagged or anything. But then, aren't guys so perpetually sex-starved that making out with a slab of tuna would still be better than getting no action at all?

Summer estaba en lo cierto, después de todo: sería una increíble Titania. Si lo consigue ella, ¿a mí qué? Podría ser un Duende mejor, y eso podría ser más divertido de todos modos. Parezco una malvada andrógina ahora, con mi cabello corto. Probablemente sería un estupendo Duende, en realidad, ahora que lo pienso. ¿Quién dice que tengo que ser la Reina de las Hadas?

Solía seguir hablando de lo importante que es transformarte totalmente de vez en cuando. Sigo creyendo eso, pero ahora he añadido una advertencia: Interpreta tantos papeles como te sea posible, pero sé quién eres en el fondo. Soy una chica en mi corazón, pero interpretar a un chico me ayudó a ampliar y perfeccionar mi comprensión de lo que eso significa. Soy la Dra. Afrodita, una periodista seria, una actriz prometedora, una impulsiva adolescente... soy toda esa gente, y estoy segura de que seré muchas más antes de morir.

¿Por qué las chicas nos obsesionamos tanto con nuestra apariencia? Es como si realmente creyéramos que lograr mantener nuestro pelo y maquillaje perfectos hará toda la diferencia. Como si cualquier hombre digno de nuestro tiempo dejaría de ver nuestra belleza debido a un clip de diamantes de imitación arreglado en un ángulo torcido.

El punto es, ¿quién soy yo para dar consejos de amor?

¡Aaaaahhhh! ¿Qué se supone que haga? Mis fuentes potenciales o me temen o les gusto. ¡Todos esos tipos que publican las denuncias acerca de mi ignorancia deberían atestiguar esto! Aquí estoy, reventando mi culo para obtener una pequeña miserable visión, y uno pensaría que estoy tras información clasificada o algo así. Quiero decir realmente, ¿qué demonios? ¿Es ser un chico tan fascinante y controvertido que tienen que proteger sus secretos comerciales a cualquier precio?

Every now and then, though, it feels like we’re trying to rekindle our neglected friendships with an old ritual that’s lost its sparkle.

Bitter, cold, barren. These are words thrown at women without children. Like we’re a Montana winter. Either we’re to be pitied or we’re to be blamed, depending on how much choice we had in the matter.

It’s a scene I’ve fantasized about for years. Yet, now that it’s happening, a part of me sits in the audience, watching the actors say their lines, analyzing the blocking. I can’t tell if this is a defense mechanism or my intuition warning me to beware.

That’s the problem with secrets. They buzz around inside the keeper like a hive of bees. Before long, somebody pokes it and the secrets swarm out, vexed and ready to sting.

...Em knows how to nurse a grudge. She doesn’t act out, doesn’t yell or cry or throw things. She just quietly removes you from the circle of people she trusts. Once you cross that line with Em, there’s no going back.

It’s one of the perks of aging, I suppose—an eagerness to release the baggage that doesn’t serve you. I know this goes against common wisdom; our therapy-obsessed culture seems to think old wounds must be reopened before they can heal. I’m not sure I agree.

The past tense is forensic. It’s all about blame. The present tense is demonstrative. It’s all about values.

The past tense is forensic. It’s all about blame. The present tense is demonstrative. It’s all about values.” I put on his thick German accent to make her laugh. “‘But the future tense—that’s where the real magic happens. The future tense is deliberative.

The past tense is forensic. It’s all about blame. The present tense is demonstrative. It’s all about values.” I put on his thick German accent to make her laugh. “‘But the future tense—that’s where the real magic happens. The future tense is deliberative. Only when you turn your attention to the future are you entering the realm of choice.

Something occurs to me. “Have you ever tried writing something from Astrid’s point of view?

The changes we swear to fight off with savage claws in our twenties end up creeping over us like a rising tide in our thirties.

Maybe that’s another thing you learn, as you get older—the value of people who know your secrets, who understand not just your present-tense persona but the younger, more reckless, more innocent version of who you used to be.