A world's full of broken hearts. That's all this is. I wondered if there was anyone above the age of say, 18, in the world who hadn't had their hearts broken at some point.
Anger at happenstance for its absurd timing. Anger at myself for being so angry. I hate being angry and every time I got this angry it made me more angry at the fact that I was so angry. I realized though that I couldn't really be mad at any of those things.
Who wouldn't want to watch an averagely attractive guy kick a three legged, one eyed dog in the face as it urinates all over itself? The correct answer is no one.
Maybe it's not love that unites the world, but rather it's broken hearts.
It’s amazing how a bed feels more like a home than any other part of a house.
Asking a girl if she's alright is like jaywalking across a black ice-covered 4 lane street: you think you can make it safely to the other side, but you're more likely to slip and fall to a most certain death.
It felt as if I was suddenly walking around in wet socks, weighing my feet down as if two kids were sitting on my feet with their legs wrapped around mine.
Why should we ever continue anything if the first parts are the best?
Find one correct answer and let the rest disappear.
There is always the possibility of a better life with every change that we face, but sometimes we have to look hard for it.
