That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.
It’s funny how you can tell if someone is an asshole just from their handwriting.
For example, I can tell my mom’s professor is a heinous bitch from her minimal review of my mom’s Power Point project.
One-a-Day doesn’t get the credit it deserves. Here’s a product that HAS to be different for men and women, because the two have different anatomies and functional properties, so they sell the two variations, but they don’t make the men’s one all über-manly cro magnon and they don’t make the ladies’ box pink and feminine.
The two literally are just different colors and they say “Women’s/Men’s health formula” or whatever.
Thank you One-a-Day, for keeping it simple.
It’s kinda funny how, even when you believe you’re happy, there are always these little fleeting moments where you just catch yourself unsatisfied with where you are. You start thinking that you’ve wasted this life, that you’re not worth much, that you just can’t do much of anything right.
You essentially revert to a former self; a self everyone seems to be at some point or another. A self that once consumed your entire being, crippled you, kept you from growing, kept you from becoming who you wanted or even destined to be.
But it’s even funnier how the number of times these moments and feelings reappear are fewer as the years go by. It’s even funnier how laughably sophomoric they are. It’s funnier how they’re so easy to dismiss, especially when all you need to quell them is a couple of puffs from a hookah vaporizer, some Dark Side of the Moon, and knowing that there’s one special person out there who loves you.