They say bad things happen for a reason, and they say it’s God’s will. But no matter how religious you are or how strong your faith, you’re always going to look both ways before you cross the street. Events are rarely detrimental, but they more of an opportunity for one to show how well you can adapt or play jazz.
My company is falling apart but that doesn’t mean the end of the world. When you’re face to face with a bear, your best option is to stand up straight and roar back, not become moving game. Goodluck to all my work family, I love you guys so much and I’ll stick around for as long as I can, but you guys should definitely take this opportunity to fight back. For some, you’re fighting for your lives. Don’t let a bear eat you without flailing, claw it’s fucking eyeballs and rip out their tongues.
If I'm gonna go, I wanna dress the part. You live with dignity, you can't die with it.
People like to compare life to things. Turning it into an unnecessary simile or whatever. And I’m going to do the same thing! I know, I know, who can possibly top Eric Roths’s “life is like a box of chocolates?” Or perhaps it was Winston Groom. I never read the book, but I know you’ve read the movie so I’ve name-dropped both potential originators of that line while displaying how lazy of a researcher I am. In my defense, I did open up two whole windows to properly google both names. Without further adieu, here it is. Life is like an espresso shot. Wonderful innit?! I used the British “isn’t it? to convey how intellectual I feel right now, because we all associate the British with anything remotely intellectual. We’ve all faked the accents. (points at the americans) Now for the explanation! I was having a glass of chilled wine, which, by the way, I don’t know how anyone could have their wine. It’s disgusting and it takes away from the full flavor of it. I don’t care if it is from the budget section of the grocery store. And I thought to myself, “isn’t life like a glass of wine?” That sounded too generic to me. A. because of the whole half glass full bit, and B. because it was too Hemingway-an. So Boom! Espresso shot! It’s quick, low cal, full of eccentric caffeine, and you snide on those who pronounce your life, eXpresso. Here’s the kicker; the bitter aftertaste. The nasty aftertaste represents the Yang in life. The black. No one ever appreciates the black and I’m not an advocate or ambassador of black, or a masochist or anything of the sort, but doesn’t that make you appreciate the white more? The shot itself, quick, indulgent, and leaves you feeling “lifted,” the beauty. Then followed by a dark lingering taste, a consequence of the rampaging thirst, the real art of the espresso shot. Lives are a collection of beauty and art and if you’re lucky, beautiful art. Of course, I haven’t even commented about the brevity of taking the shot, which corresponds to our very lives. We move too fast to enjoy the minute layers, and get stuck with a bitter afterlife.
No one really wants to make love on a sandy beach or a public bathroom. You realize that real couples never really fly off to New York or Paris on a moment’s notice. But you would ride up nine extra floors in an elevator just to talk with each other, and watch Three’s Company in Spanish with each other while drinking wine in a coffee mug. If you’re lucky, you’ll even do funny voices or accents in public or shout embarrassing things together as a form of liberation from social standards, or even just for a quick laugh. But those quick little laughs build up into something more beautiful than wanting to write a book where Salvador Dali died, or pee into the last toilet Jayne Mansfield ever flushed. We’re not a society of people who love others at the end of the day because of the achievements they’ve made, though romantic in thought, or the achievements others saw them make, we’re people that love other people because we love the little things no one else notices. Our notices of the little details are proof that we love deeper than some guy admiring the magazine stand or the girl ogling MTV2. I love that your hands are always freezing, and that mine aren’t, and how better they’d be together. I love that you order in the most fickle way because you don’t want certain things to touch on your plate, but think salsa and baby carrots are acceptable. I love that your teeth are always showing when you try to look cute. I love that you think it’s cute. I love how I want to spend every day with you. I love that I can smell your scent in some of my clothes you borrowed when you went jogging. I love when you borrow my clothes without asking. I love how I get whiffs of your scent when I do simple every day things, even pooping. I love you because “when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start immediately.” I wouldn’t want to start the rest of my life with anyone else. I love you.
by Cecil Shelby in A Note I Forgot to Send Because My Apartment Was Being Fumigated.
Maryanne knew how to wear makeup, but had an exquisite art of putting on her make up so perfectly, that it wouldn’t matter if she only had dirt and mud to work with. She had a frightening beauty. And Marcus, the boy from across the pond who’d always been treated as if he, himself, insisted on being born, dissuading all arguments of morality, religion, reason, and even some of his best friends, was the one walking her home that evening. They arrived at her gate, covered in brightly lit vines that seemed to pulse to his heartbeat and an orchestra of crickets chirping the symphony of her glory. She gave him a nod, kissed him on his sooty cheek, and left through her gate. For the brief moment her lips touched his skin, everything seemed to slow down, as if he had willed her kiss to last longer, allowing Marcus to savor every microsecond. He even thought the crickets stopped. But Maryanne had to leave through those gates, lives were woven by these partings and meetings, big and small. There he stood, watching her sea-blue dress disappear behind the vines, or perhaps it was royal blue, colors seemed to change every time he thought of that moment, seeing her in hundreds of shades and a hearing a hundred symphonies via crickets, and a hundred painful kisses goodbye. He never had the chance to have one week’s worth of company in her world, yet Marcus could only find his smitten mind dancing months around the bliss of having her with him till death did them part. That was then, when he knew absolutely nothing. It was impossible for him to know how far her soul would weave into his.
The creature that came from across the pond that turned young Marcus into the man he is, came back to wound him with affection. She honestly wanted to be stopped and the more Marcus resisted, the fonder Maryanne became, almost with an admiration to his strength. The dead fact was, everything Marcus did, was inspired by her, but the anguish she dealt him only made him more stubborn to confess. Anything good that was in him buried beneath the despair, belonged to her. They both knew this, but decided to speak better in consumptions of tea and cigarettes, many years later.
You have me thinking our heart’s goals are unattainable. That’s when I feel like I’m losing myself. As if our hearts were boats that were slowly sinking. That’s what we’re thinking. I’ll be waiting at the shore with open arms when and only when you discover you were the lonely one.
oh if you find yourself for once as the lonely one. Chances are that if we work it out, we’ll be doing nothing but collecting wind gusts and rain drops, just standing around for the sake of nothing. You’re preoccupied thinking about yourself and yourself being miles ahead, and my idea of where we are just gives you ammunition instead. You seem certain that I know my place. So let it end with a whimper instead of a bang because I can’t defend you honestly when I worry about smoke or whether or not you rang.
Campfire roaring. It’s dark and there’s nothing we can do. There’s something about the woods and the water that we lost somewhere in the city-life. Or perhaps we sold it. But a good trip to get lost is the best way to find yourself.
I’ll kill when I’m hungry, I’ll drink gasoline when i’m dry. Buy fanciful things when I have money, shake hands with religion when I die.
I sit here on the park bench in the end of the night, just before dawn and wonder how the birds know to leave in a flock towards the purple sky. The words you refuse to say, are hidden in your every move. It’s no secret to me that your style never involved the stars and the moon. So we sat one winter morning, the sun, not yet risen. I’ve never really trusted my dreams with prayer, but have admittedly found myself pleading into the air, just to keep you safe from the harms that might appear. I’ll love you when you’re gentle and I’ll love you when you’re wild, all that really matters is that “love’d” be nice.
Some would say I dream too much, and some would even say I’m a fool.But then again, this life never had order and it never had any rules. We want the love they talk about, though it’s never like they say it is, you’ll find that come tomorrow, you can’t remember why you felt like this.
When you uttered to me that you were in love with me, did you have a clue to what you meant? Or did you say it because you heard it or or thought you saw what it’d represent? Then again, why does it keep raining when the sun is out, why do the clouds keep crying? Why do i toss and turn at night when I sleep, why do I even keep trying? Winter’s come and summer’s gone, we skipped a few seasons, but who loves the sun anyway?