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I actually grew fond of her in a nastily superior kind of way. For she was so completely artless and optimistic and clueless, she didn't care that she smelled bad or was fat or wore clothes unlike everyone else's, she had some weird disconnect with life that kept her constantly bubbling, and you knew she would go blithely through her long horribly boring life thinking every thing was just swell (the opposite of me). ↗
It's not like I got caught masturbating, for chrissake; she doesn't know me, why the hell would she care if I'm superstitious? - Karen ↗
This is worse than Hollywood, he thought. A girl comes in with a pork chop and I write a song for her. ↗
I guess the answer would be yes." "Got to love that word." He kissed her so sweetly then, it brought tears to her eyes. "Got it in you to say it again?" And then he did the unthinkable. He went down on one knee. ↗
Do you think,” she said, “instead of having sex, we could make love?” “I’d love that,” Ken whispered. ↗
Time seemed to stop; the world around them stilled. There was only her. His thumb caressed at her lips, the lips he wanted to kiss. Katianna rolled her face in his palm—a caressing nuzzle and he stilled, his breath froze in his chest. A response. A submissive one at that. His heart, stilled fractured by that single nuance, but his loins burst with a wave of warmth. A response—it had been a response. Oh fuck he had to kiss her. His whole body was screaming for her now. ↗
#kiss #lips #love #submission #love
Just ask him how he did it He'll say, pull up a seat It'll only take a minute To tell you everything Be a best friend, tell the truth Overuse "I love you," Go to work, do your best Don't outsmart your common sense Never let your prayin' knees get lazy And love like crazy ↗
#love #prayer #success #work #work-ethic
We had so much to say to each other, like we’d been quiet our whole lives until we met. It was as if I had underestimated how hungry I was for a companion, how much I needed to be understood, to be pursued, to be seen and to be reflected in someone’s eyes. ↗
This is my first real memory of James. In every memory before that, he’s just a flash of color, a warm body with a blurred face, a comforting voice begging me not to die. When he planted himself between our father and me that day, an eight-year-old with small fists clenched at his sides, I think I fell in love with my brother. ↗
