I Made A Playlist For You Quotes

You know the reason The Beatles made it so big?...'I Wanna Hold Your Hand.' First single. Fucking brilliant. Perhaps the most fucking brilliant song ever written. Because they nailed it. That's what everyone wants. Not 24/7 hot wet sex. Not a marriage that lasts a hundred years. Not a Porsche...or a million-dollar crib. No. They wanna hold your hand. They have such a feeling that they can't hide. Every single successful song of the past fifty years can be traced back to 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand.' And every single successful love story has those unbearable and unbearably exciting moments of hand-holding.

Baz tries to elbow her back. "Put on your seat belt!" "But I made a road trip playlist!" "Are you trying to kill us all before we can listen to it?

May 19th 2031_ Eleven months before_ I opened my eyes to see darkness and the sound of my alarm beeping. 0400 hours. I turned it off and got up. I looked for my glasses on my bedside cabinet and put them on. "Alexa, Good morning roll," I said loudly in the dark room. The lights came on and the curtains opened, the speaker turned on and started playing my Spotify playlist. I slowly got dressed and made myself breakfast. After breakfast, I downed a 500ml bottle of zero coke. I leaned to one side and burped. I looked around my kitchen. The dark marble counter and white cupboards, walls and ceiling matched with each other. I looked outside the kitchen window at the traffic down below. I was about 6 floors high, if you were to jump off from that high, there is a very high chance you might die. And if you were lucky to survive, you would be immobilised from your broken legs and hip and ribs. I turned around and sat on the black leathery sofa and switched on the TV. I looked on Netflix at old World War Two films that I could watch before bed. I scrolled through the list. From 'Dunkirk' to 'Unbroken' to a lot more films. I chose a couple and switched the TV onto the news. The reporter said that there was a knife crime in Redding earlier. I sighed but was relieved that it wasn't me. It is a low chance that I would get murdered by someone or people with knives in England but it's still a possibility. I turned the TV off and looked at my phone. There was nothing new on Discord and nothing new on WhatsApp. I checked my Snapchat and opened a few Snaps from my friends at work. I took a selfie of myself in my apartment not working. I sent it off and was happy that I don't work on

I’d do two things. One—I would create a playlist on Spotify of all the songs that I think you would love based on my knowledge of your music taste. Two—I would buy you a journal and ask you to write down what each song made you feel.” Ashley cringed. “I know it sounds a little weird, but I used to do something similar and what I wrote in my journal became some of the best parts of my articles.

Me: I like your study playlist. Angel: Good. You can use it when you’re studying in room 1 or 2. It was exactly what I needed. She had me smiling as soon as I’d opened the chat. Me: You’re repeating yourself, little angel. Angel: And you’re making a nuisance of yourself, Squatter. Me: You’re really adorable. I think we are becoming friends. Angel: Not friends. You are my nemesis. It had not been difficult to figure out Evelyn Kastanos was the original room three occupant. After our first anonymous texting conversation, I’d simply waited at a nearby table. When she’d hurried by, directly into her room, I had not felt surprised. If anything, I had been pleased. It made this little game all the more fun. I was careful not to go too far. I wanted Evelyn to have fun with me, not drive her crazy. This was the reason I continued letting her have room three.

I’m sorry, darling. What are you sorry about? Being a shit mother. This is something she has said and worried about my whole adult life. Sometimes she makes herself a victim of the thought and sometimes it carries a deep plea for forgiveness. I had always been exasperated by the statement and felt it asked me to repeatedly qualify that there had been shit moments of selfishness that accompany any human, mother or not, but that she, in all honesty, was not a shit mother. There are clearly certain thoughts that keep playing through a life, though, like songs on repeat. They are for you, and you alone and however much you try to involve other people in them, they really have nothing to do with anyone but yourself. Here, in whatever end-of-life moment we are in, it is suddenly necessary to lay those thoughts to rest. Take the stylus off the record, delete the playlist. There’s nothing to be sorry about, Mum. So what if you were, what if it were true? Does it matter? Because here we are together, talking . . . together. I love you and more than that, I know I love you, and I see who we are together—we laugh a lot, you are who I want to call when things are bad or good or interesting. So how can you being a shit mother really be something that carries any weight in terms of what it did to me, your child?—It didn’t. Which makes me think you weren’t, or at least, not entirely. She has fallen asleep, but she is smiling. I think even though it was a bit of a ramble, I made a good point. In making it, I realize I absolutely mean it.

Jason came up behind me as I took seven hazelnuts and slipped them into my purse. I turned to him and he arched his eyebrows at me. “What? They come with the coffee. And I love the little creamers. I keep them in my purse for coffee emergencies.” “Coffee emergencies?” He smiled down on me. He was back in my personal space again. Just slightly closer than most people stood. It made me feel a little breathless. “Yeah,” I swallowed. “You can never be too prepared.

Seems to me that a gentleman who really wanted to get to know me better would have found time for a text with his question during reasonable hours.” “I was very busy yesterday.” “Sounds like you just weren’t properly motivated yesterday. A text only takes a second. Now I have no choice but to penalize you.” Her tone was playful, but she wasn’t going to cut me any slack. And was she maybe, just possibly, a little mad at me for not being more attentive yesterday? The thought made me smile to myself. “What can I do to make it up to you? Give me your address and I’ll send you flowers. What’s your favorite kind?” “Sunflowers. And not a chance.” “I guessed you might say that.

His steady voice had become a part of my daily routine. But this time when voicemail picked up, a robotic female informed me that the mailbox was full. A sign? I looked at Kristen, who watched me wordlessly. That was it. My mind was made up. I thumbed through my phone and found a picture of Tucker and me that I’d taken a few days earlier. I attached it to a message to Jason and sent it off. “You’re right. Brandon would want me to be happy. And that Jason guy, if he ever shows up? He can go to hell.

couldn’t wrap my brain around how I’d misjudged Jason to such a high degree, how I could think he was that in love with me, when clearly he wasn’t. It made me question my entire sense of self. Like finding out your hero isn’t a hero at all and you’re just too blind to know the difference. Right after it happened, I’d

She asked me once what would I do if she lost her memory. How would I remind her of my touch, my scent, the way we kiss, from all these miles away. And so I told her, "You can still feel the sunlight from thousands of light-years away, you can still see the beauty in the stars burning miles before yesterday, you can still hear the call of your love's voice even after the dream ends, you can still understand the magic of a letter long after words have been penned." I told her that memory is more than being present. It is in the way I feel every time I see a flower in her favorite color; it is in the playlist we made each other this past summer. It is in the stories we share about our day; it is in the pictures we have that will last forever. I told my love, "The space between is not measured by how many lonely nights we spend apart but rather all the beautiful moments always connecting my heart to your heart.

Hospitality requires too much work. Create a guest list, send invitations, plan a menu, make a playlist, shop for groceries, design a tablescape, unearth and polish the fancy dishes, wash and press the table linens, chill the dessert, prepare the meal, dress for the occasion, light the candles, wash the dishes, do the mopping, “Keep-a busy, Cinderelly!”—perhaps this is the list that churns in your head every time you think about hosting others in your home. If so, no wonder you’ve stamped “Too much work” over the whole thing. That list is nearly as long as the tax code and would take more than a pack of animated mice to help you complete it. Might I offer you a word of encouragement I hope will dowse the hot flames of frustration that surround your attempts at hosting? Unless Victorian-era aristocracy has suddenly made a comeback in your neighborhood, you might be making hospitality harder than it needs to be. In chaining yourself to a lengthy list of to-dos, you may inadvertently lose sight of the whole point of hospitality: to welcome the stranger. Don’t make the experience about you, make it about them. Remember, Leviticus 19:34 kind of hospitality leads with ’āhaḇ love. It chooses service over performance, present over perfect.