“Never Talk to Strangers.” Everything I remember about this book I had when I was two or three: The Easter Bunny isn’t a stranger because everyone knows him.
My dad picks up hitchhikers. At least once, when I was two or three, my carseat was put in the trunk to make room.
Bad advise and inconsistency. My childhood.
I’m not particularly envious.
Exceptions: People who are confident and yards with nice grass.
I react like everyone else, even like those I most despise; but I make up for it by deploring every action I commit, good or bad. – Emil Cioran
If I hadn’t chosen to play the trumpet, a decision made as 4th grader, I wouldn’t have met my husband.
That’s a fucked up thought.
I have some journals, mostly from a pretty dark time.
I’m afraid to read them.
I don’t want to throw them away in case I want to read them in the future.
I want to throw them away so no one can read them if I die.
Dying unexpectedly is the scariest part of dying.
Some people are resilient like Tom Brady is a quarterback. I can’t comprehend how it would feel to be either.
Sometimes, I feel like the least validated person I’ve ever met.