“I don’t like girls in the daytime,” he said shortly, and then, thinking this a bit abrupt, he added: “But I like you.” He cleared his throat. “I like you first and second and third.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise (via scout) (via antoinetta)
right now the hair around my face is being blown around by the wind from my fan, and i feel like i have listless octopus arms attached to my scalp. they are slowly waving around in the air kind of staying mostly in one spot. i also feel like there are red mites crunching around on my face and that a slug crawled over the bridge of my nose and left her trail of slime for me to see and try to wash away. my brow is furrowed and looks like a crawfish tail and my skull is six sizes too big for my brain.
i am freaking out about not knowing my friends anymore but really i just want to finish paris je t’aime instead of going to kris’ house to watch batman.
i got a one on my french ap. what the fuck am i going to do.
I am thinking about flying over the cities between the midwest and the east coast and all about the geography of America; the romantic connotations of the names the stories about it written by beat poets and country song writers. I think they are just as much regions as they are ideas. I am thinking about passing silently and quickly over these places alone.
I am not going to think to much about my conclusion because contentment is confusingly simple, and trying to over-analyze your inner-peace will unwind it like a ball of yarn.
There was a time in my life when my mantra was, “The measure of love is to love without measure.” which was a french saying. It’s still an interesting statement to me. It’s not so bad to love without measure but why is it important to measure your love?