| the truth is... he's just not that into you. |
[Mar. 4th, 2009|02:02 am] |
"Girls are taught a lot of stuff growing up: if a boy punches you he likes you, never try to trim your own bangs, and someday you will meet a wonderful guy and get your very own happy ending. every movie we see, every story we're told implores us to wait for it: the third act twist, the unexpected declaration of love, the exception to the rule. but sometimes we're so focused on finding our happy ending we don't learn how to read the signs. how to tell the ones who want us from the ones who don't, the ones who will stay and the ones who will leave. and maybe a happy ending doesn't include a guy, maybe it's you, on your own, picking up the pieces and starting over, freeing yourself up for something better in the future. maybe the happy ending is just moving on. or maybe the happy ending is this: knowing after all the unreturned phone calls and broken-hearts, through the blunders and misread signals, through all the pain and embarrassment... you never gave up hope." -He's Just Not That Into You
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 22nd, 2009|12:04 am] |
"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about." |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 6th, 2008|02:17 am] |
"There are some fish that cannot be caught. It's not that they're faster or stronger than the other fish. They're just touched by something extra special. Call it luck. Call it grace. One such fish was The Beast. By the time I was born, he was already a legend. He'd take more hundred-dollar lures than any fish in Alabama. Some said that fish was the ghost of Henry Walls, a thief who'd drowned in the river 60 years before. Others claimed he was a lesser dinosaur, left over from the Cretaceous period. I didn't put any stock into such speculation or superstition. All I knew was I'd been trying to catch that fish since I was a boy no bigger than you. And on the day you were born, that was the day I finally caught him. Now I'd tried everything on it: worms, lures, peanut butter, peanut butter-and-cheese. But on that day I had a revelation: if that fish was the ghost of a thief, the usual bait wasn't going to work. I would have to use something he truly desired. I tied my ring to the strongest line they made -- strong enough to hold up a bridge, they said, if just for a few inutes -- and I cast it upriver. The Beast jumped up and grabbed it before the ring even hit the water. And just as fast, he snapped clean through that line. You can see my predicament. My wedding ring, the symbol of the fidelity to my wife, soon to be the mother of my child, was now lost in the gut of an uncatchable fish. I followed that fish up-river and down-river for three days and three nights, until I finally had him boxed in. With these two hands, I reached in and snatched that fish out of the river. I looked him straight in the eye. And I made a remarkable discovery. This fish, The Beast. The whole time we were calling it a him, when in fact it was a her. It was fat with eggs, and was going to lay them any day. Now, I was in a situation. I could gut that fish and get my ring back, but doing so I would be killing the smartest catfish in the Ashton River, soon to be a mother of a hundred others. Did I want to deprive my soon-to-be-born son the change to catch a fish like this of his own? This lady fish and I, well, we had the same destiny. We were part of the same equation. Now, you may well ask, since this lady fish wasn't the ghost of a thief, why did it strike so quick on gold when nothing else would attract it? That was the lesson I learned that day, the day my son was born. Sometimes, the only way to catch an uncatchable woman is to offer her a wedding ring." |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 15th, 2007|02:31 am] |
Here I am, inspired to write only because I'm pissed off. - Kurt Cobain
add me first
then comment to be added:-) |
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tabisee's journal