We’re all said to have character, and our characters seem to indicate our general caliber — the types of decisions we’re known to make, and the fine or fucked quality of our souls. But our characters are not (like a baked-and-cooled cheesecake) permanently set; mostly-good people can do bad things, and typically-bad people can do very good things.
I don’t really know what to say to you about it, other than: If one’s ass is LITERALLY exceeding the length of their shorts, the shorts are probably inadequate.
They were all great guys until they didn’t work out.
My next memory of Christopher is me sitting next to him on a piano bench — him turning his head to the right, toward me; eyes half closed, fingers still tapping the keys, smiling.
I missed Rose. I missed her like a whisper, like an exhale.
So now, I keep chasing the boys who don’t want me; the ones who are in love with people they can’t be with, crazy about their drugs, sold on their instruments and rockstar dreams, or perpetually chasing sex instead of love… and I just don’t know how to look at a normal, has-got-their-shit-together kinda guy and be like, “YOU seem interesting!”