#bro

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling? ↗

— Charles Lamb

#friend #friendship #friendship

The bittersweet about truth is that nothing could be more hurtful, yet nothing could be more helpful. ↗

— Mike Norton

#brotherhood #envy #friend #friendship #need

There was no other way to say it. After being heartbroken for so long, I had made myself completely numb inside. Maybe not from physical pain, but anything emotional, yes. Sexual pleasure? Numb to that, too. I’d have been a great actress. After all, I had the perfect, mind-blowing orgasm down to an art. Suppose I deserve an Oscar for that. ↗

— Jennifer Salaiz

#hurt #numb #sad #art

Google “brooklyn writer” and you’ll get, Did you mean: the future of literature as we know it? ↗

— Colson Whitehead

#brooklyn #funny #writers #funny

If I were an armadillo, and a stranger came up and said I looked familiar, and they wanted to know why I looked so familiar, I'd respond in a raspy voice, "Your brother ran over my brother. ↗

— Jarod Kintz

#brother #funny #ran-over #raspy-voice #stranger

I was a militant smoker, and in my case, I think I particularly used smoking because what I felt was a kind of politically correct big brother assault on smoking. ↗

— Joe Eszterhas

#because #big #big brother #brother #case

He told me that if you yelled out "JAMBA!" at full volume, all the employees would yell back "JUICE!" He lied. ↗

— Morgan Matson

#brother #charlie #funny #funny

I turn to our father, searching for an ally. "So Dad, is it legal for Bronte to date out of her species?" Dad looks up from his various layers of pepperoni and breadless cheese. "Date?" he says. Apparently the idea of Bronte dating is like an electromagnet sucking away all other words in the sentence, so that's the only word he hears. "You're not funny," Bronte says to me. "No, I'm serious," I tell her. "Isn't he like... a Sasquatch or something?" "Date?" says Dad. ↗

— Neal Shusterman

#tennyson #dating

A couple months after school started that year, I just plain stopped going to see the Maje. I remember coming home one day and checking the answering machine in my bedroom. The first message was from the Maje. He was waiting for me to come over. He sounded feeble and desperate: "Steve, where are you? I need you? Are you coming? Please . . ." I deleted it. The next message was also from the Maje and said pretty much the same thing. Delete. There must have been a dozen messages on that machine from the Maje, all begging me, pleading with me, to come help him. I deleted every single one of them. To this day, I have no idea what happened to the Maje, no idea if he ever got that cataract surgery. That's how our relationship ended. It still makes me feel horrible to think about now: I just deleted the Maje. ↗

— Stephen "Steve-O" Glover

#home

Empirically, the home had been designed to suit its purpose, and it did so quite well. It was a place where dreams died and fantasies came true. ↗

— Joseph DiFrancesco

#design