Lilac Funny Quotes

Funny thing about grief: It gets easier with practice.

Breathe, Cassie, breathe. He has a good face. Not the face of someone who wants to hurt you. If he wanted to hurt you, he wouldn't have brought you here and stuck an IV in you to keep you hydrated, and the sheets feel nice and clean, and so what took your clothes and dressed you in this cotton nightie, what did you expect him to do? Your clothes were filthy, like you, only you're not anymore, and your skin smells a little like lilacs, which means holy Christ he BATHED you.

But the three hundred and sixty-five authors who try to write new fairy tales are very tiresome. They always begin with a little boy or girl who goes out and meets the fairies of polyanthuses and gardenias and apple blossoms: 'Flowers and fruits, and other winged things.' These fairies try to be funny, and fail; or they try to preach, and succeed.

Funny thing about grief: It gets easier with practice

Some days, I’m still sixteen and burning bridges. I’ve seen a lot of war zones in these past few months, between the edges of your razorblade teeth. I’m waking up to nightmares of still being in love with you, then finding out I wasn’t dreaming at all – I stayed up all last night writing about how I’m over you. It’s funny how my way of being over you is thinking about you every goddamn day. Going through our old letters this morning, I realized “over” shares three letters with “love,” and I blamed the dictionary for still missing you. See, you always had my heart in your clenched fist – I’ve never been fond of your crash-and-burn kind of love, six months of sweet-talking wedding bells and words that sound a lot like forever, then sudden ice ages and statue days. I didn’t know goodbye could be so bitter until you weren’t the one to say it, and I was leaving you for the hope of someone who might actually love me back again. Now I’m hopping trains, running away from the thought of you kissing someone else, and I’ve ended up choking on my splintered blood. They couldn’t love you like I did, could they? Not with the warm bodies and soft words, not with my name smeared across your belly in light lilac bruises. There are days when I’m breaking down your door and stealing back all my love-stained clothing, pressing razorblades into the walls to remind you that there are ways to bleed on the inside and that’s exactly what you did to me There are days when I’m still sixteen and burning bridges.

He's very funny, Dr Warrington. He says each child in the polio ward is allowed two minutes of an organ recital every morning. That’s what he called our complaining about all our aches and pains. He used to encourage us to be cross, or sad, or frustrated, or downright grumpy – he said it was good to let it all out. He even let us say one bad word about the polio once a month – that was a very funny day – and then no more. He said complaining was a bad habit we shouldn’t cultivate.