relateable

I guess it__ also not a good thing when you start relating yourself to a late nineteenth century nut bag who shot himself, but hey, you__e got to relate to something if you ever want to feel relevant.

Sobs force their way out of my throat. I feel like I__ trapped in a disaster movie where everything is shriveling into darkness and ash. Sunflowers are being uprooted. Puppies are being trampled. Whole cities are crumbling to dust.

I wasn't just crying about Will. I was crying about Seb and Shona and my job and my sister's aggression and my parent's refusal to be proud of me and Lauren's wedding and every last shit little thing that had happened to me from birth, from the big disasters like puberty, to the things that didn't even seem to matter at the time, like when I put milk in my tea last Thursday and then found out it had gone off.

We did all the tourist crap, but I just wanted to sit in a cafe and watch people

You haven't been fired," Mary said with a sigh. "You always jump to the worst possible conclusion. Why on earth would you be getting f

Getting responses on "Through the Milky Way" that it is creating an emotional investment by some of my readers. A gentleman I have know for awhile took the book on a vacation to the beach. While reading it, his wife came up to him and asked him why he was crying. He told her the book was sad and something he could relate to. Had others with the same response.

I worried so much about how I looked and whether I was doing things right, I felt half the time I was impersonating a girl instead of really being one.

Reading a stranger's words and finding yourself in them.

(showing 1-2 of 2)sort by _ topup up1 positiondown down_ bottomRemove this quote from your collectionSalvador Dalí__ don't do drugs. I am drugs._ _ Salvador Dalítags: drugs 918 likes_ topup up2 positiondown down_ bottomRemove this quote from your collection__ut it's funny how even after all these years you find yourself wondering just how well you know anyone. Hell, we've all been tight since we we're kids - been through a lot together - but we still have secrets, don't we? All of us. None of us are ever exactly, precisely what we claim to be, are we? We're one way with some people, another way with other people, maybe another way still when we're all alone. That's what it boils down to fellas. At night, when you're lying there in bed looking at the ceiling, remembering the day, thinking back through things you did and what lies ahead, when it's just you and whatever god you pray to in the dark ...that's when all the masks are peeled away and it's just you. Just you..., and whoever...or whatever you are.

Everyone wants to talk-talk-talk. Can't we eat-eat-eat, and then talk?

I feel the monster of grief again, writhing in the empty space where my heart and stomach used to be. I gasp, pressing both palms to my chest. Now the monstrous thing has its claws around my throat, squeezing my airway. I twist and put my head between my knees, breathing until the strangled feeling leaves me.