I had just turned thirty. That was enough in itself to be depressed about. I never thought I would be this age and feel this worthless. I was supposed to be “somebody.
Did you recently turn into a jerk or have you been one since birth?
I left Hairball to his manic mantric singing. I walked toward the house and stopped to rub some white pine needles on my fingers. The evergreen smelled fresh and alive. The needles were long and soft to the touch. I looked back at Hairball. The moon had risen higher and Little Meadow was even brighter. The wind
picked up Hairball’s singing and blew it away. By the time I got up to the house he had become a silvery ghost dancing in the moonlight, a nowhere man longing to live on the moon.
You were just a young girl not wanting to let on that death could happen to one who hadn’t even lived yet.
Words are a weapon, and rotten kids like Tyler Jones get a free pass when it comes to using them because the marks they leave are invisible. Why don’t more adults realize that?
Don’t read their rubbish… Read mine
I turn and run, watching my feet trample a massacre of weeds. I mourn them. The only thing that grows is dandelions in the cracks of the sidewalk and we always end up killing them.
I wanted to have a good relationship. One that’s romantic and dramatic, like in the movies. But I finally became a woman at 17 and learned that men aren’t really that simple.
I’m tired of justifying why I love someone. I’m done with the explaining.
When they reached the top of the hill they turned and looked down at the valley. Moominhouse was just a blue dot, and the river a narrow ribbon of green: the swing they couldn’t see at all. “We’ve never been such a long way from home before,” said Moomintroll, and a little goose-fleshy thrill of excitement came over them at the thought.