Gigi Quotes

If he's getting married, he's not longer interesting.

In the realm of love and sex, it’s girls who are in the position of working hard to adapt themselves to the needs and fantasies of the mercurial males whose approval and attention they seek.

I never meant to hurt you," Grayson told her. "I know," Gigi said simply. She's not leaving. I haven't lost her. Grayson didn't ignore the emotions twisting in his gut and rising up inside him. For once in his life, he just let them come. "I like my sister," he told her. This time, there was nothing pained about Gigi's smile. "I know.

Then, bidding farewell to The Knick-Knack, I went to collect the few personal belongings which, at that time, I held to be invaluable: my cat, my resolve to travel, and my solitude.

Mike only laughed. “‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’” Gigi - “Methinks that is the only Shakespeare line thou doth know.

Seseorang pernah bilang, kata-kata kasar itu seperti pasta gigi; begitu dipencet keluar dari tempatnya, akan sangat sulit untuk memasukkannya kembali

Tenderness, that most alien and disconcerting of emotions, swelled and billowed in her. She picked up a cherry and stared down at the soft, bright-red fruit. “I love you.” The last time she'd declared her love he'd thrown it right back in her face. She waited uncertainly for his response. She didn't even have to wait a second. He leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. “I love you more.” - Gigi and Camden

He smiled at her. And it hit her like a mallet to the temple, the realization that she was in love with him. Stupidly, dreadfully in love with him. Overnight, she'd become a fool.

You are not eating a cock sandwich,” I snarl. “Not in this house.

Gigi Grayson was not obsessed! She was not over-caffeinated! She certainly wasn't about to fall of the roof! But try telling a Hawthorne that.

Gigi could feel a mental cha-cha coming on

You were listening at the door, Gigi!" "No, Grandmamma." "Yes, you had your ear to the keyhole. You must never listen at key-holes. You don't hear properly and so you get things all wrong.

You can’t go around stabbing every man who shows you disrespect,” I say. “Why not?

Crying makes me know I'm still real and still alive.

Gigi’s actual name was Jolene Kraken. If her penetralia was exposed, even Gigi herself would be surprised. She was smart, aloof, indifferent to the opinions of others. Maybe she was amoral. Maybe because self-analysis wasn’t her strong suit. Neither did self-analysis interest her. Her goal as a young woman was to make serious money, enough to set her up for a life in which she could romp and stomp through the world doing exactly what she wished. And frequently what she wished was to deliver justice to people with bad intentions. She wanted to hurt people who hurt people.

Footsteps approach the kitchen. Garrett wanders in, wiping sweat off his brow. When he notices Sabrina, he brightens. “Oh good. You’re here. Hold on—gotta grab something.” She turns to me as if to say, Is he talking to me? He’s already gone, though, his footsteps thumping up the stairs. At the table, Hannah runs a hand through her hair and gives me a pleading look. “Just remember he’s your best friend, okay?” That doesn’t sound ominous. When Garrett returns, he’s holding a notepad and a ballpoint pen, which he sets on the table as he sits across from Sabrina. “Tuck,” he says. “Sit. This is important.” I’m so baffled right now. Hannah’s resigned expression doesn’t help in lessening the confusion. Once I’m seated next to Sabrina, Garrett flips open the notepad, all business. “Okay. So let’s go over the names.” Sabrina raises an eyebrow at me. I shrug, because I legitimately don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. “I’ve put together a solid list. I really think you’re going to like these.” But when he glances down at the page, his face falls. “Ah crap. We can’t use any of the boy names.” “Wait.” Sabrina holds up a hand, her brow furrowed. “You’re picking names for our baby?” He nods, busy flipping the page. My baby mama gapes at me. I shrug again. “Just out of curiosity, what were the boy names?” Grace hedges, clearly fighting a smile. He cheers up again. “Well, the top contender was Garrett.” I snicker loud enough to rattle Sabrina’s water glass. “Uh-huh,” I say, playing along. “And what was the runner-up?” “Graham.” Hannah sighs. “But it’s okay. I have some kickass girl names too.” He taps his pen on the pad, meets our eyes, and utters two syllables. “Gigi.” My jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? I’m not naming my daughter Gigi.” Sabrina is mystified. “Why Gigi?” she asks slowly. Hannah sighs again. The name suddenly clicks in my head. Oh for fuck’s sake. “G.G.,” I mutter to Sabrina. “As in Garrett Graham.” She’s silent for a beat. Then she bursts out laughing, triggering giggles from Grace and eventually Hannah, who keeps shaking her head at her boyfriend. “What?” Garrett says defensively. “The godfather should have a say in the name. It’s in the rule book.” “What rule book?” Hannah bursts out. “You make up the rules as you go along!” “So?

Gigi took in that info. “I am starting to feel distressingly sober. I think I need another mimosa.” “You got drunk on mimosas?” Nash asked mildly. Gigi held up a single finger. Xander interpreted. “On one mimosa?” “And four cups of coffee,” Gigi admitted.

Gigi sighed fondly. “Such strange granddaughters I have. I’m so proud. Your father is depressingly ordinary.

As Gigi always said, Men are much less time-consuming when you lie.

I don't have a bad side" Gigi said pertly. "I believe in rehabilitation

Beauty is about perception, not about make-up. I think the beginning of all beauty is knowing and liking oneself. You can't put on make-up, or dress yourself, or do you hair with any sort of fun or joy if you're doing it from a position of correction.” ― Kevyn Aucoin

Eat clean to stay fit, have a burger to stay sane.

Te voy a dar un consejo: No te tomes tan en serio a ti mismo. En el fondo, tú no importas.

Heaven help me. Hell, come to my rescue.

My brother had the faith my father brought him to, and for a long time, I had Sylvia, Angela, and Gigi, the four of us sharing the weight of growing up Girl in Brooklyn, as though it was a bag of stones we passed among ourselves saying, Here. Help me carry this.

How much to make her go to her room and stop talking to me?” Cal asked. While I gaped at his rudeness, Gigi coughed a rather obvious “douchebag!” into her fist. I caught her eye and shook my head emphatically. Douche-coughing someone with superhearing was not a responsible choice.

If we had had jazz, would we have survived differently? If we had known our story was a blues with a refrain running through it, would we have lifted our heads, said to each other, This is memory again and again until the living made sense? Where would we be now if we had known there was a melody to our madness? Because even though Sylvia, Angela, Gigi, and I came together like a jazz improv - half notes tentatively moving toward one another until the ensemble found its footing and the music felt like it had always been playing - we didn't have jazz to know this was who we were. We had the Top 40 music of the 1970s trying to tell our story. It never quite figured us out.

When you have to walk further, wherever it might be, I beg you, never to go alone anymore. I think that as a lesson for us all. I believe it was a warning. If Dad had been alone, he surely would have died.

To all the pretty little psychos who crave a blade to the throat

I am willing to admit that Gerard Butler has single-handedly murdered the romantic comedy.” Gigi snickered. “Gerard Butler took the romantic comedy to an orgy, accidentally strangled it during an air game, panicked, and dumped its body in the woods.” I stared at her, gobsmacked. “That may be the funniest thing I've ever heard –” I spluttered. “How the hell do you even know what an air game is?” Gigi preened. “Just because you put the parental locks on HBO doesn’t mean I can’t get around them.

And since, through lack of vocation or from habit, [Julie] was prone to confuse pity with boredom, she felt herself practically a prisoner...

It wasn't only a little she-cat I bought. It was the nobility of all cats, their infinite disinterestedness, their knowledge of how to live, their affinities with the highest type of humans.

For all the girls who like to clutch at pearls… this ain’t for you

Se ogni volta che ci si incarna si evolve, che cos’era nella vita precedente Gigi Marzullo?

Never trust anything you hear from an old Irishman,” my grandmother Gigi always said, and she should know because she’d married and buried three of them.

Love you, Gigi. I always have. Every moment we were side by side. Every moment we were apart. I think the times I pushed you away…I only love you more.

So.” Those mesmerizing blue eyes focus on my face “Are you going to let me kiss you, Gigi?” My pulse speeds up

I'd rather be miserable with you than without you.' - Colette, Gigi

It's good to be a little nervous. God compensates those with a lack of talent with an overabundance of self-confidence. -Gigi

If you have one teapot,” he said, pouring hot water over tea leaves, “that will do you quite well. How much does he lack himself who must have a lot of things?” “You’re quoting Sen Rikyū,

I've killed two of the most important people in my life for you. For your protection," he says through gritted teeth. "Isn't it obvious, Seraphine?" I shake my head. "No." "Because i love you.

«She sat at the bow of a pleasure craft a stone's throw away, under the shade of a white parasol, a diligent tourist out to reap all the beauty and charm Copenhagen had to offer. She studied him with a distressed concentration, as if she couldn't quite remember who he was. As if she didn't want to. He looked different. His hair reached down to his nape, and he'd sported a full beard for the past two years. Their eyes met. She bolted upright from the chair. The parasol fell from her hand, clanking against the deck. She stared at him, her face pale, her gaze haunted. He'd never seen her like this, not even on the day he left her. She was stunned, her composure flayed, her vulnerability visible for miles. As her boat glided past him, she picked up her skirts and ran along the port rail, her eyes never leaving his. She stumbled over a line in her path and fell hard. His heart clenched in alarm, but she barely noticed, scrambling to her feet. She kept running until she was at the stern and could not move another inch closer to him (…) Gigi didn't move from her rigid pose at the rail, but she suddenly looked worn down, as if she'd been standing there, in that same spot, for all the eighteen hundred and some days since she'd last seen him. She still loved him. The thought echoed wildly in his head, making him hot and dizzy. She still loved him.»

Some people would say that this was a coincidence, that I met this girl so soon after I’d lost Gigi while our favorite song was playing, and that her voice made me feel like everything would be all right before I even knew her name. But I’m a believer in signs. I was right. She and I, we were friends for a long time. But things happen, and people change, and everything is different now. Still, I hope that girl knows I'll cherish the friendship we had forever. Even after everything.

La luna se veía grande y plateada sobre los pinos negros y hacía brillar misteriosamente las viejas piedras de las ruinas. Momo y Gigi estaban sentados en silencio el uno al lado del otro y se miraron largamente en ella: sintieron con toda claridad que, durante ese instante, ambos eran inmortales

The Earth is round but everything on it is flat.

You’re about to learn what happens to naughty little brats.

After you, probably anyone can have me who wants me. A woman, many women. But never another cat.

Do you remember your safe words? Yes, why? I ask…… Because this punishment is going to hurt.

She continues slicing something on the chopping board, using the precision of a sushi chef. I glance over her shoulder to see what she’s cutting, and my heart stops. It’s a severed penis.

Be you, be yourself, be happy again. Don’t let life pass by you. Don’t look back, look into the bright future. The future is as bright as the promise of God. Smile – it’s the most beautiful attire.

Leroi is my peace of mind, and his presence is my tranquility. He’s the most exciting man I’ve ever encountered. The heat of this kiss burns through my barriers and ignites the flames of my desire. I want more. I want him.

That was how he would go on tormenting her, after his physical departure from her life. A baroque plan, byzantine even, a plan that both pleased and shamed him. He awaited only the night, this one grotesque, terrible night.

Leroi shoves a sandwich under my nose. “Eat.” “Is it cock?” I snarl, wanting to get under his skin. He flinches. “No, it’s turkey and cheese. Sorry to disappoint, but no human men were maimed in the production of this meal.

Oh God God isn't in this crawlspace with us but I'm about to make you pray for his forgiveness Tears burn my eyes but I'm determined not to cry. I've never felt so sullied, never felt so stuffed You're taking this femur so well Oh fuck off

[Julie] had lived a great deal among lies, before plumping for a small life of her own, a sincere and restricted life from which all pretense, even in matters sensual, was banished. How many crazy decisions and allegiances to successive aspects fo the truth! Had she not, one day when her costume for a fancy dress had demanded short hair, cut off the great chestnut mane that fell below her waist when she let it down? 'I could have hired a wig,' she thought. 'I might also, at a pinch, have passed the rest of my life with Becker or Espivant. If it comes to that, I could also have gone on stirring puddings in a saucepan at Carneilhan. The things "one might have done" are, in fact, the things one could not do...

I put on a martyred expression - like this - as if I was bored to death with every luxury under the sun. I had the time of my life.

Some men give their love flowers, others give them chocolates or even jewelry, but Leroi gives me the satisfaction of revenge and vigilante justice.

He’s handsome, dangerous, protective—everything a girl could ever need,

Please fuck me and make me come..." The chaotic part of me adds with a smirk, 'If you can.

This handjob from hell has gone too far.

I’m killing everyone.

Tease me like this again, and I’ll restrain your arms again and bring you to the brink of orgasm again and again and again until you pass out from frustration.

Now that I’ve had you, I can’t ever let you go. You’re mine, Seraphine. Every beautiful piece of you.

Alright then, Little Miss Murderer, get to work.

That’s it, little slut,” he says. “Ride me like you mean it. Take what you need.” “Yes, sir,” I moan.

I would raze the entire city to ashes if it meant keeping you safe,” I say, meaning each fucking word.

Interesting choice of words, because I fuck like a demon.

I’m addicted to her terror, obsessed with her screams. I can’t get enough of my murderous little ghost.

You’re my sweetest obsession. From the moment I knew you existed, I’ve been addicted. I would slaughter every man who tried to keep me from possessing you.

My stalker, the vengeful ghost. The sadistic bastard who craves my complete destruction.

How lovely to sit here in the shade With none of the woes of man and maid I'm glad I'm not young anymore..... From the musical Gigi

siapa pun tuan mereka tetap begini mengunyah janji tanpa gigi.

Different ages, classes, languages, races, religions, nationalities, occupations, passions. The more I saw people’s superficial differences, the more I learned those things weren’t important.

She touched him, placing her hand over his curled fingers, straightening them so that they were palm to palm, then she interlaced her fingers with his. Her fingertips were icy. A silent, dangerous thrill coursed through him. He wanted to pull her atop him and show her what awaited a foolish young woman who slipped into a man's bedroom in the dead of the night after having devoured him all evening with those dark, intense eyes of hers, setting his blood to simmer over three long hours.

Now there ain’t no point in crying about it. How many times has Gigi said that to me, after lost races or unrequited crushes? Hasn’t it been the mantra of Black women for generations? What choice do we have except to get on with it already?

Gigi se olía una historia de Romeo y Julieta, una historia cuyo atractivo se le escapaba. La señorita Capuleto debería haberse casado con el hombre que sus padres eligieron para ella y luego haber tenido una aventura ardiente, pero muy discreta con el señor Montesco. No sólo habría seguido viva, sino que al cabo de un tiempo se habría dado cuenta de que Romeo era un joven imberbe y aburrido con poco que ofrecerle salvo bonitos tópicos. "Es el oriente, y Julieta es el sol". Por favor.

Oh God" "God isn't in this crawlspace with us but I'm about to make you pray for his forgiveness" "Tears burn my eyes but I'm determined not to cry. I've never felt so sullied, never felt so stuffed" "You're taking this femur so well" "Oh fuck off

We tend to be honorable, trustworthy, and have high ideals of how to treat others.  Thus, we can’t imagine anyone else would do anything other than what we would do.  WRONG!  It pays to learn about human nature and that in essence, people are not good and trustworthy.  Yes, there are wonderful human beings on this planet, but you won’t run into them daily or even regularly unless you’ve worked hard to choose the company that you keep.

No one stops to question why boys are never the objects of the gaze; why, if being on display is so empowering, males don't embrace this form of sexual expression, too.

He treats me with respect, works, provides, spoils me, and fuck me so good, not to mention how dangerous his fucking tongue is.

You are my blessing. Not because you make me smile but because you made my heart happy.

Je me demande, entre parenthèses, pour qui vous la gardez? Pour un employé à deux mille quatre qui l'épousera et qui lui fera quatre enfants en trois ans?

Nobody gets to look at me like I’m a piece of meat.

There is something easy about being alone and deciding what to do and how to do it.

- É aquele estupido marido que tenho. - disse para o velho cão. - Em vez de me dar uma trancada,bate no raio do piano. Vamos lá dizer-lhe para se calar.

I glance across the passenger seat and smile at my innocent little serial killer.

She felt a feathery touch on her back and turn to see the man of her pleasures standing with her in the shower. Lost in her own thoughts, he’d managed to sneak in unheard. She looked at him now. His naked body glistened as the water rolled down his broad chest, over the firm and delicious abs and on down to his… On my, what a big boy, she whispered as she reached for him.

Someone loved this girl, this utterly useless girl, loved her enough to go on wooing her, even though she was being paraded before all of Europe for takers. A moment of stark despair descended upon her that she would never know such love, that she would go through life sustained only by her facade of invincibility. Then she came to her senses. Love was for fools. Gigi Rowland was many things, but she was never a fool.

Gabriel? She placed a kiss to his shoulder and laid her head against it. We should move, she whispered. Um hmm. Getting there. She laughed. The water’s getting cold. Water? Water from the shower, she said with a giggle. We’re taking a shower?

I close my eyes and try to find the sound of the clock in the living room. There it is, past all the voices, the plates and forks clicking, the feet walking from room to room. There is the clock, keeping up with everything as if nothing has changed at all.

As with all Torino stories, there was to be a final, weird, twist to this tale. In 2000 Torino appointed a new president. He was a life-long Torino fan and had worked as a spokesman for FIAT. His name? Attilio Romero. The same Attilio ‘Tilli’ Romero who had run over his idol – Gigi Meroni – in 1967. The club was now run by a man who had killed one of its most famous players, albeit by accident. This bizarre fact did not pass without comment. Some fans, unhappy at the performance of the team, took to shouting ‘murderer’ at Romero.

Tag said I was aptly named. “Wasn’t Moses a prophet or something?” I just rolled my eyes. At least we weren’t talking about the fact that I’d been found in a basket. “MO-SES!” Tag said my name in a deep, echoing “God voice,” reminiscent of the old Charlton Heston movie, The Ten Commandments. Gigi had loved Charlton Heston. I’d spent an Easter with her the year I was twelve and we’d had a Charlton Heston marathon that made me want to smear red paint above everybody’s door and burn all the bushes in Levan. Come to think of it, I had smeared paint all over Levan, many times. It was all Charlton Heston’s fault.

I briefly considered getting a cat, but then decided against it because I didn’t want to be one of those people. You know what I mean. My grandmother, Gigi (Mom’s mom), was one of them. She’d make tuna fish and then sit in her old chair, which smelled like Bengay and broken dreams, and chew it, then open her mouth and let her cat eat it right then and there. She said it was because Mrs. Tingles was too old to chew her own food and she wanted to give her a treat. I told her I was the only person in the world who had a grandmother who made out with her cat and smelled like fish while doing so. My grandmother wondered aloud if that made her a lesbian.

Lore is my favorite kind of story. Because it's not only historical, it's a lie everyone knows is a lie but tells anyway. I love that. Of course every story I tell is true. Completely true. Completely and utterly at least five-eighths of the way to being true, which is truer than any piece of lore and truer than most truths you'll hear.

He had his eyes closed and rocked himself so much that everyone thought he would soon crash to the ground. And then it happened. He crashed to the ground. Surprised, he lay on the ground on his side, not sure what had happened, looking around. Next he jumped up and listened to Matica’s singing again, starting to rock himself once more. His eyes closed slowly, his beak opened. And then he crashed to the ground a second time. This time he kept lying down, spreading his free wing up into the air and waving it to the tune of the melody. Strange sounds came out of his beak. It was a grunt but more than a grunt, as if he was really enjoying himself, as if he would follow Matica’s words and would sing or hum as well.

For many Highly Sensitive People, fear can be debilitating.  After years of being browbeaten or otherwise treated as abnormal, we might as well own that sucker.  We are abnormal in that normal is the 80-85% of the world that are not HSPs.  Normal is the large bunch that follows the crowd and succumbs to mob mentality.  Normal is loud and inconsiderate; at least that’s how it feels in our sensitive skin (sorry normals, I’m writing for the HSP and trying to make a point – no offense meant).  Do we really want to be normal?

I’m walking you to your door,” he said, glancing at the lurking boy with palpable distaste. “For obvious reasons.” “It’s not that bad,” she protested. “They’re all mostly students.” “Well, that particular student”—he said with a nod toward the sinister-looking young man—“must be putting himself through college by dealing dope. And those two over there . . .” This time he nodded toward a giggling, swaying pair of young women in tight miniskirts and thigh-high boots. “Are probably hooking to pay their tuition.” Cleo peered at the girls in the gloomy light and gasped when she recognized them. They saw her at the same time and screeched in delight at the sight of her. “OMG! Cleo!” Coco screamed, and Cleo caught Dante involuntarily flinching at the sound of that high-pitched voice. “It’s so weird to find you waiting down here for us. It’s like you knew we were coming.” “She did know, remember?” Gigi reminded her in an only slightly less shrill voice. And Cleo hadn’t really known they were coming, since nothing definite had been arranged. “What the hell?” Dante muttered beneath his breath, and Cleo smiled at the consternation she could hear in his voice.

The same song was playing the second I met my ex–best friend and the moment I realized I’d lost her. I met my best friend at a neighborhood cookout the year we would both turn twelve. It was one of those hot Brooklyn afternoons that always made me feel like I'd stepped out of my life and onto a movie set because the hydrants were open, splashing water all over the hot asphalt. There wasn't a cloud in the flawless blue sky. And pretty black and brown people were everywhere. I was crying. ‘What a Wonderful World’ was playing through a speaker someone had brought with them to the park, and it reminded me too much of my Granny Georgina. I was cupping the last snow globe she’d ever given me in my small, sweaty hands and despite the heat, I couldn’t help imagining myself inside the tiny, perfect, snow-filled world. I was telling myself a story about what it might be like to live in London, a place that was unimaginably far and sitting in the palm of my hands all at once. But it wasn't working. When Gigi had told me stories, they'd felt like miracles. But she was gone and I didn't know if I'd ever be okay again. I heard a small voice behind me, asking if I was okay. I had noticed a girl watching me, but it took her a long time to come over, and even longer to say anything. She asked the question quietly. I had never met anyone who…spoke the way that she did, and I thought that her speech might have been why she waited so long to speak to me. While I expected her to say ‘What’s wrong?’—a question I didn’t want to have to answer—she asked ‘What are you doing?’ instead, and I was glad. “I was kind of a weird kid, so when I answered, I said ‘Spinning stories,’ calling it what Gigi had always called it when I got lost in my own head, but my voice cracked on the phrase and another tear slipped down my cheek. To this day I don’t know why I picked that moment to be so honest. Usually when kids I didn't know came up to me, I clamped my mouth shut like the heavy cover of an old book falling closed. Because time and taught me that kids weren't kind to girls like me: Girls who were dreamy and moony-eyed and a little too nice. Girls who wore rose-tonted glasses. And actual, really thick glasses. Girls who thought the world was beautiful, and who read too many books, and who never saw cruelty coming. But something about this girl felt safe. Something about the way she was smiling as she stuttered out the question helped me know I needn't bother with being shy, because she was being so brave. I thought that maybe kids weren't nice to girls like her either. The cookout was crowded, and none of the other kids were talking to me because, like I said, I was the neighborhood weirdo. I carried around snow globesbecause I was in love with every place I’d never been. I often recited Shakespeare from memory because of my dad, who is a librarian. I lost myself in books because they were friends who never letme down, and I didn’t hide enough of myself the way everyone else did, so people didn’t ‘get’ me. I was lonely a lot. Unless I was with my Gigi. The girl, she asked me if it was making me feel better, spinning the stories. And I shook my head. Before I could say what I was thinking—a line from Hamlet about sorrow coming in battalions that would have surely killed any potential I had of making friends with her. The girl tossed her wavy black hair over her shoulder and grinned. She closed her eyes and said 'Music helps me. And I love this song.' When she started singing, her voice was so unexpected—so bright and clear—that I stopped crying and stared at her. She told me her name and hooked her arm through mine like we’d known each other forever, and when the next song started, she pulled me up and we spun in a slow circle together until we were both dizzy and giggling.

Here is the voice of my main Character in my Talon book series, I’ll let her introduce herself to you: My name is Matica and I am a special needs child with a growth disability. I am stuck in the body of a two year old, even though I am ten years old when my story begins in the first book of the Talon series, TALON, COME FLY WITH ME. Because of that disability, (I am saying ‘that’ disability, not ‘my’ disability because it’s a thing that happens to me, nothing more and because I am not accepting it as something bad. I can say that now after I learned to cope with it.) I was rejected by the local Indians as they couldn’t understand that that condition is not a sickness and so it can’t be really cured. It’s just a disorder of my body. But I never gave up on life and so I had lots of adventures roaming around the plateau where we live in Peru, South America, with my mother’s blessings. But after I made friends with my condors I named Tamo and Tima, everything changed. It changed for the good. I was finally loved. And I am the hero and I embrace my problem. In better words: I had embraced my problem before I made friends with my condors Tamo and Tima. I held onto it and I felt sorry for myself and cried a lot, wanting to run away or something worse. But did it help me? Did it become better? Did I grow taller? No, nothing of that helped me. I didn’t have those questions when I was still in my sorrow, but all these questions came to me later, after I was loved and was cherished. One day I looked up into the sky and saw the majestic condors flying in the air. Here and now, I made up my mind. I wanted to become friends with them. I believed if I could achieve that, all my sorrow and rejection would be over. And true enough, it was over. I was loved. I even became famous. And so, if you are in a situation, with whatever your problem is, find something you could rely on and stick to it, love that and do with that what you were meant to do. And I never run from conflicts.

For many Highly Sensitive People, fear can be debilitating.  After years of being browbeaten or otherwise treated as abnormal, we might as well own that sucker.  We are abnormal in that normal is the 80-85% of the world that are not HSPs.  Normal is the large bunch that follows the crowd and succumbs to mob mentality.  Normal is loud and inconsiderate; at least that’s how it feels in our sensitive skin (sorry normals, I’m writing for the HSP and trying to make a point – no offense meant).  Do we really want to be normal?   I thought not.  So, let’s understand that our fear of being rolled over by others is much of what holds us back.  Having to deal with the ones who mock us and act as if our very being is an aberration can put a damper on anyone’s spirit, not to mention the highly sensitive one’s.