Tis The Season Quotes

The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes The thronèd monarch better than his crown. His scepter shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings, But mercy is above this sceptered sway. It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings. It is an attribute to God himself. And earthly power doth then show likest God’s When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this- That in the course of justice none of us Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much To mitigate the justice of thy plea, Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

Your corn is ripe today; mine will be so tomorrow. 'Tis profitable for us both, that I should labour with you today, and that you should aid me tomorrow. I have no kindness for you, and know you have as little for me. I will not, therefore, take any pains upon your account; and should I labour with you upon my own account, in expectation of a return, I know I should be disappointed, and that I should in vain depend upon your gratitude. Here then I leave you to labour alone; You treat me in the same manner. The seasons change; and both of us lose our harvests for want of mutual confidence and security.

What brings joy should never be embarrassing

And he’s right: I am too much. I am too much for him because he always should have deserved less.

To all the girls who knew Elle was always too good for Warner. And for all the girls who were told they were “too much.” Let him go find less.

My sister taught me many things, but the most important was one she showed me rather than told me: never to let the assholes see you fall apart.

Your own experience is not less because mine was more.

Tis a far cry from home for a poor lonely thing, O'er the deeps and wild waters of seas, Where you can't hear your dear mother's voice softly sing Like a breeze gently stirring the trees. Come home, little one, wander back here someday, I'll watch for you, each evening and morn, Through all the long season 'til I'm old and grey As the frost on the hedges at dawn. There's a lantern that shines in my window at night, I have long kept it burning for you, It glows through the dark, like a clear guiding light, And I know someday you'll see it, too. So hasten back, little one, or I will soon be gone, No more to see your dear face, But I know that I'll feel your tears fall one by one, On the flowers o'er my resting place.

I do believe you think what now you speak, but what we do determine oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory, of violent birth, but poor validity, which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree, but fall, unshaken, when they mellow be. Most unnecessary 'tis that we forget to pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt. What to ourselves in passion we propose, the passion ending, doth the purpose lose. The violence of either grief or joy their own enactures with themselves destroy. Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament. Grief joys, joy grieves on slender accident. This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange that even our loves should with our fortunes change. For 'tis a question left us yet to prove, whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. The great man down, you mark his favorite flies. The poor advanced makes friends of enemies. And hitherto doth love on fortune tend, for who not needs shall never lack a friend, and who in want a hollow friend doth try, directly seasons him his enemy. But, orderly to end where I begun, our wills and fates do so contrary run that our devices still are overthrown. Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own. So think thou wilt no second husband wed, but die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.

Winter is icummen in, Lhude sing Goddamm, Raineth drop and staineth slop And how the wind doth ramm! Sing: Goddamm. Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us, An ague hath my ham. Freezeth river, turneth liver Damn you, sing: Goddamm. Goddamm, Goddamm, tis why I am, Goddamm. So 'gainst the winter's balm Sing Goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm Sing Goddamm, sing Goddamm, DAMM.

Sometimes what we don't wish for is more powerful than what we do.

When we turn left, he switches sides, making sure he’s on the side of the street and I’m toward the buildings.

To empathize with someone, you don’t need to have lived the same story.

Realizing that you survived on scraps of affection and convinced yourself it was a whole meal can be the most eye-opening, humbling experience in the world.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;—lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah, nutbrown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!—'Tis no sport for peasants.

Mmm. Let me guess. I like to drink the blood of innocents, feast on the entrails of knights and eat the hearts of small children everywhere. (Sin) Aye, that was much the consensus. (Callie) Well, I hope you didn’t go to such trouble to feed me. I fear ’tis off season for good blood, and knights can be rather testy when you disembowel them. (Sin)

What brings joy should never be embarrassing,

What brings you joy, Damien?” she asks, her voice low and soft. “Right now? It’s standing right in front of me.

But a soulmate doesn’t work like that. A soulmate isn’t supposed to be easy or one-sided. It’s a balance—a give and take.

It’s not just makeup. It’s never just makeup. It’s confidence, a badge of honor, a shield from the world.

We only have one life to live and everyone owes it to themselves to squeeze the maximum fun and joy out of it. Once your one life is gone, it’s gone.

I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed I know I have no reason! Perhaps I am not well in health, And 'tis a gloomy season. - The Three Graves

Tis the season to act like a dick.

I see lights!" (-Cinder) "I hear singing!" (-Ruskin) "I smell treats!" (-Groth) "I want free stuff!" (-Roke) "ROKE!" (-Cinder) "What?! 'Tis the season..." (-Roke)

You are, rubia. I see it every time I’m with you. I don’t need kids or anything else for that matter to be happy with you. It’s just you. You make me happy. I’ll do what it takes to prove it to you.

And then he bought me coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, drove me all the way to Long Island during 8 am traffic in downtown New York City, walked me up ten floors to my apartment and kissed me at the door, and made me promise to see him on Friday, at the latest.

One man in a thousand, Solomon says. Will stick more close than a brother. And it's worth while seeking him half your days If you find him before the other. Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend On what the world sees in you, But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend With the whole round world agin you. 'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show Will settle the finding for 'ee. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go By your looks, or your acts, or your glory. But if he finds you and you find him, The rest of the world don't matter; For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim With you in any water. You can use his purse with no more talk Than he uses yours for his spendings, And laugh and meet in your daily walk As though there had been no lendings. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call For silver and gold in their dealings; But the Thousandth Man he's worth 'em all Because you can show him your feelings. His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right, In season or out of season. Stand up and back it in all men's sight With that for your only reason! Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide The shame or mocking or laughter, But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side To the gallows-foot - and after!

Leaves I twist between my fingers, closing my eyes as thoughts drift. Into the momentous winds of time, the red-orange will soon afloat. For Autumn hues are unravelling through the waning summer days. ‘Tis the season of yearning passion and lyric to my heart and mind. [Ever Changing Rhythms of Life]

In my own shire, if I was sad Homely comforters I had: The earth, because my heart was sore, Sorrowed for the son she bore; And standing hills, long to remain, Shared their short-lived comrade's pain. And bound for the same bourn as I, On every road I wandered by, Trod beside me, close and dear, The beautiful and death-struck year: Whether in the woodland brown I heard the beechnut rustle down, And saw the purple crocus pale Flower about the autumn dale; Or littering far the fields of May Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay, And like a skylit water stood The bluebells in the azured wood. Yonder, lightening other loads, The season range the country roads, But here in London streets I ken No such helpmates, only men; And these are not in plight to bear, If they would, another's care. They have enough as 'tis: I see In many an eye that measures me The mortal sickness of a mind Too unhappy to be kind. Undone with misery, all they can Is to hate their fellow man; And till they drop they needs must still Look at you and wish you ill.

Why bother, you know? Found a fucking perfect one. Why mess with that?

But because they are good friends—the best friends—I know they trust me with my relationships, and if I tell them I’m happy, then they’re happy.

You consume me. I don’t know how you did it, but I have fallen madly, deeply, in love with you.

We’re taking this day by day. But day by day, with an eye to the future.

It’s just you. You make me happy. I’ll do what it takes to prove it to you.

Richard is annoyed with me for not making him dumping me easy?

I can’t do this, Abbie. I need to be more serious about my future. You were fun, but I can’t settle for fun.

Yeah, I like that,” he says. “Your heartbeat is there. Like the feel of it on my palm. I’ve never met anyone so alive, Abigail,” he says.

You’re getting it. I told you I’m falling, and I’m taking you with me.

Now it means that no matter how much they fight, how many mistakes they make, they always fit. She’s always going to be his other half.

I’m telling you I’m having a shit day. A long fucking day. I’m telling you I can’t go out, but I really fucking want to see you. I’m asking you to be at my place when I get home.

It was never about extravagance. It was about feeling like an equal. Feeling cherished. Feeling appreciated.

You’re starting to mean a lot to me, Abigail,” he says, and because I’ve shelved the smart part of me temporarily, I just smile to myself. “Yeah, Damien.

Revenge?” I ask, but the word rolls off my tongue like butter. I love the way it feels.

Boys might not, baby. But men? Men love to make a woman scream their name while their head is between her legs.

Hey Reader! Thank you so much for signing up to get a sneak peek of Tis the Season for Revenge! Christmas is my favorite time of year, and I thrive off of fun, feel-good Christmas movies and books! I’m so excited to have one of my own! Tis the Season for Revenge contains mentions of cheating, verbal, physical, and financial abuse. Please always put yourself first

People do tend to burrow in for winter holidays but then burrowing can be as damaging (implosion, avoidance) as it can be cozy (buzzword: self-care) maybe one maybe t'other maybe some of both.

And though I smile as he kisses my temple before he walks us out, making sure to grab my jacket on the way, I can’t help but feel like this is a terrible decision. But I’m out of time. The clock hit midnight and I didn’t confess and now my fairy tale will crumble around me. And whatever happens next, I deserve it because I played a good man to get revenge on a shit one who didn’t even deserve that effort.

Are you serious? The bag says, HEAUX BAG. Why would I take that over that man's house with me?” “Because you are trying to get slutted out, wifed up, knocked up, and loved on for the rest of your life. Don’t hide that pussy, divide that pussy.

Baby, you were never leaving without me tonight. I needed air. I went for a walk. I was headed back when you found me.” My mouth drops open, and his hand tightens just a hair at the look. “You’re getting it. I told you I’m falling, and I’m taking you with me.

TO MY SISTER IT is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before The redbreast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door. There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field. My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, 10 Make haste, your morning task resign; Come forth and feel the sun. Edward will come with you;--and, pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness. No joyless forms shall regulate Our living calendar: We from to-day, my Friend, will date The opening of the year. 20 Love, now a universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: --It is the hour of feeling. One moment now may give us more Than years of toiling reason: Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season. Some silent laws our hearts will make, Which they shall long obey: 30 We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day. And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above, We'll frame the measure of our souls: They shall be tuned to love. Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.

The quality of mercy is not strain'd. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The thronèd monarch better than his crown. His scepter shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptered sway. It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings; It is an attribute to God Himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice.

Morning broke before the last song was finished. Lucien tried it over to a street-song of the day, to the consternation of Berenice and the priest, who thought that he was mad: — Lads, ‘tis tedious waste of time To mingle song and reason; Folly calls for laughing rhyme, Sense is out of season.

I don’t share, Abigail. We agreed that this might not be serious, that we’re both not looking for that right now, but I don’t share. I’m a very possessive man. What’s mine is mine.” Her tongue reaches out, tapping against her pink lips, and just barely, the faintest brush touches my lip. Fuck, I want this woman.

You’re not listening, naranja.” His voice made me pause. Not angry, but firm. The words he was saying, he wanted me to hear, to understand. “I’m telling you I’m having a shit day. A long fucking day. I’m telling you I can’t go out, but I really fucking want to see you. I’m asking you to be at my place when I get home.

Terence, this is stupid stuff: You eat your victuals fast enough; There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer. But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly-ache. The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head: We poor lads, ’tis our turn now To hear such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme Your friends to death before their time Moping melancholy mad: Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.’ Why, if ’tis dancing you would be, There’s brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt does more than Milton can To justify God’s ways to man. Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink For fellows whom it hurts to think: Look into the pewter pot To see the world as the world’s not. And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past: The mischief is that ’twill not last. Oh I have been to Ludlow fair And left my necktie God knows where, And carried half way home, or near, Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer: Then the world seemed none so bad, And I myself a sterling lad; And down in lovely muck I’ve lain, Happy till I woke again. Then I saw the morning sky: Heigho, the tale was all a lie; The world, it was the old world yet, I was I, my things were wet, And nothing now remained to do But begin the game anew. Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure, I’d face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good. ’Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale Is not so brisk a brew as ale: Out of a stem that scored the hand I wrung it in a weary land. But take it: if the smack is sour, The better for the embittered hour; It should do good to heart and head When your soul is in my soul’s stead; And I will friend you, if I may, In the dark and cloudy day. There was a king reigned in the East: There, when kings will sit to feast, They get their fill before they think With poisoned meat and poisoned drink. He gathered all that springs to birth From the many-venomed earth; First a little, thence to more, He sampled all her killing store; And easy, smiling, seasoned sound, Sate the king when healths went round. They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up: They shook, they stared as white’s their shirt: Them it was their poison hurt. —I tell the tale that I heard told. Mithridates, he died old.

A relationship is like the law. It needs balance. If it’s out of balance, if one person sees themselves as less valuable, if another sees themselves as more valuable, the balance isn’t there.” His dark eyes are boring into mine with his words, and any words I could say are stuck in my chest. “You are not less than me. I am not less than you. We are humans who do what we can to help people.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,— That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep? - Ode to a Nightingale

When the world is so fraught and full of fire-- hearts and minds and countries burning up burning down-- going in may be the escape urge-- as if it's no longer there-- but it's all still there all the time-- reading news or not-- outside looking at seasonal lights store window displays children's cherry-cheeked faces or not-- even when heads are buried in pillows. Take a break to breathe. The frenzy and furor continue. Take a break to weep. The exquisite beauty is still there. All continues on and will be there upon return.

I do believe you think what now you speak; But what we do determine oft we break.   135 Purpose is but the slave to memory, Of violent birth, but poor validity; Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree, But fall unshaken when they mellow be. Most necessary ’tis that we forget   140 To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt; What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose. The violence of either grief or joy Their own enactures with themselves destroy;   145 Where joy most revels grief doth most lament, Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident. This world is not for aye, nor ’tis not strange, That even our love should with our fortunes change; For ’tis a question left us yet to prove   150 Whe’r love lead fortune or else fortune love. The great man down, you mark his favourite flies; The poor advanc’d makes friends of enemies. And hitherto doth love on fortune tend, For who not needs shall never lack a friend;   155 And who in want a hollow friend doth try Directly seasons him his enemy. But, orderly to end where I begun, Our wills and fates do so contrary run That our devices still are overthrown,   160

Their cook at Badenoch was a crotchety old lady who hadn't tried a new recipe in decades. "Dinna tell Mrs. MacGuff that or she'll put a spider in your tea." "Try it and tell me 'tis not worth the risk." He tore off a corner of the bridie and lifted the bite to Katherine's lips. It fairly melted on her tongue. In addition to the crusty pasty, a unique mix of spices seasoned the savory meat inside, a burst of sensations for her mouth. "Och, you're right. This is worth braving a spider. I'll get Cook to show me how she makes these, and then Mrs. MacGuff will either learn from me or she'll have to suffer my presence in her kitchen from time to time. And we know how she loves that!" "So," he said smugly, his dark eyes alight with triumph, "ye do intend to come home with me after Christmas, then.

O Opportunity, thy guilt is great! 'Tis thou that executest the traitor's treason: Thou set'st the wolf where he the lamb may get; Whoever plots the sin, thou 'point'st the season; 'Tis thou that spurn'st at right, at law, at reason; And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him, Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him. 'Thou makest the vestal violate her oath; Thou blow'st the fire when temperance is thaw'd; Thou smother'st honesty, thou murder'st troth; Thou foul abettor! thou notorious bawd! Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud: Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief, Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief! 'Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame, Thy private feasting to a public fast, Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name, Thy sugar'd tongue to bitter wormwood taste: Thy violent vanities can never last. How comes it then, vile Opportunity, Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee? 'When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend, And bring him where his suit may be obtain'd? When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end? Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chain'd? Give physic to the sick, ease to the pain'd? The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee; But they ne'er meet with Opportunity. 'The patient dies while the physician sleeps; The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds; Justice is feasting while the widow weeps; Advice is sporting while infection breeds: Thou grant'st no time for charitable deeds: Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder's rages, Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages. 'When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee, A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid: They buy thy help; but Sin ne'er gives a fee, He gratis comes; and thou art well appaid As well to hear as grant what he hath said.

Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; And now I'll do't. And so he goes to heaven; And so am I revenged. That would be scann'd: A villain kills my father; and for that, I, his sole son, do this same villain send To heaven. O, this is hire and salary, not revenge. He took my father grossly, full of bread; With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his audit stands who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought, 'Tis heavy with him: and am I then revenged, To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and season'd for his passage? No! Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid hent: When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage, Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed; At gaming, swearing, or about some act That has no relish of salvation in't; Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, And that his soul may be as damn'd and black As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays: This physic but prolongs thy sickly days

I went to the railing and looked out over the sea. It had been fussing earlier in the day, but now it lay greasy and hushed. 'You got a tremendous prospect from up here, Brother Assembly.' 'Aye. Two evenings hence, for instance, I noted thy schooner passing westward. I also saw a cutter at the same time, a low and black-hulled cutter, British from the look of her, beating eastward beyond Vandyke's. She kept the island betwixt herself and thee, and sailed on into yon flat ugly yellow clouds.' He nodded to the east. I got a crawly feeling between my shoulders, like I'd been hunting a panther and discovered it had been hunting me. 'Well, then,' I said, 'I guess I'd best be shoving off.' 'Tomorrow is the first of October. There have been no hurricanes yet this season worth mentioning, but a noteworthy one approaches now, thou mustn't doubt. Do not cling too tightly to ephemeral notions and worldly things, Brother, lest thou lose what thou most values.' He whistled an old Shaker hymn that was popular among the Brethren: 'Tis a gift to be simple, 'Tis a gift to be free, 'Tis a gift to come down Where we ought to be... I knocked on the railing, annoyed with myself for my superstitiousness but angrier with Assembly for baiting me. 'Of all the infernal meanness,' I said. 'Don't whistle for a wind in hurricane season!' 'Oh, as for that,' he said, the corners of his naked lip turning up just a little bit, 'God watches out for sailors and the wicked, is't not what sailors say? And the wicked, too, I doubt not.

Anyway, half of them are police agents. It’s the first principle, isn’t it? Whoever’s arguing fiercest for violence is the cop.

But Damien just laughs, tipping his head back. He finds me . . . funny.

The truth is, I’m falling for Damien Martinez, and I am so wholly fucked because I don’t think there’s an easy way out of this.

My heart stops with his words, but he keeps talking. “You consume me. I don’t know how you did it, but I have fallen madly, deeply, in love with you. Every moment of every day is consumed by thoughts of you, planning the future, dying to be with you.

I’d rather be a Marilyn over a Jackie any day.

Fuck him! Because the reality is, he wasn’t enough. And he’s right: I am too much. I am too much for him because he always should have deserved less.

What scumbag saw this perfect specimen of a woman and decided he didn’t want that?

I did a lot of dumb shit to try and fit what I thought would be his perfect woman.

I changed things I loved about myself because of a piece of shit man who thought I was too much.

Who the fuck decides if someone is good enough, anyway? Sure, there are people who just don’t fit with you, but you don’t drag it out for four fucking years.

Is it okay if I kiss you, Abigail?

A body that I’d overworked and underfed for years to fit some standard I thought would get me my dream future.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with a short man. Nothing at all. The issue becomes when the man puts so much thought into how tall he is that it starts to impact who he’s with.

You are my sun and my moon and I will be yours. You completely consume me.

Who the fuck is this man?

I don’t like sweat. It’s . . . inconvenient. And it’s not good for my skin or my hair.

He turns to me. “See? It’s not just makeup, rubia.” God, he gets it, doesn’t he? It’s not just makeup. It’s never just makeup. It’s confidence, a badge of honor, a shield from the world.

Go. Clean up. Then give me some sunshine before you go to bed, yeah?” Give me some sunshine. Jeeze. I like that, giving someone sunshine.

Just, you know. You’re a full 14 years older than me. It must be hard, keeping up.

Until then, you’re going to take my cock like a good girl, yeah?

I want to give everything to a man and let him consume me. I want to fall so hard that I don’t know where up is. I want to be selfish, and I want to be his and his alone. I don’t want to share. I’m like my mom, because I think a small part of me would resent a child for taking that possibility from me.

He’s kind of a Chad. You know, a male Karen?

He’s kind of a Chad. You know, a male Karen? Shit. I’ve been dating a fucking Chad for four years. And I was planning to marry this asshole?!

Like many people who talk to me, I can tell he regrets asking questions.

I’m standing in the corner, intentionally avoiding everyone and swiping on a dating app I downloaded this morning. The only explanation for the decision I can give is lately, life has been . . . blah.

He thought it made him better than others, like a person who reads non-fiction not because they enjoy it, but because they like to brag about it.

Do you know how hard it is to find hot shoes with a two-inch heel?

I want to be selfish, and I want to be his and his alone. I don’t want to share. I’m like my mom, because I think a small part of me would resent a child for taking that possibility from me.

peace

Tis the damn season,

Our last kiss. I never thought I’d utter those words.

Christmas tree farm.

like a million little sparks flying whenever he smiles at me.

It doesn’t matter at the end of the day. To empathize with someone, you don’t need to have lived the same story.

I’m recovering from four years of living in a dreamland that was really a nightmare, and I’m learning how to live with that knowledge. Learning how to be me again. Who “me” even is.

I can’t show you affection in front of my friends, Abbie,” Richard once told me when we were fighting in the car after a night out. “It’s weak. And I’m not a weak man.

A relationship is like the law. It needs balance. If it’s out of balance, if one person sees themselves as less valuable, if another sees themselves as more valuable, the balance isn’t there.” His dark eyes are boring into mine with his words, and any words I could say are stuck in my chest.