I write human stories. I write about people. Not as a product of their environment. But from the stance that everybody is made of the same thing.

Every small thing grows when you nurture it, Rosie. Love is just the same. But if that is making you miserable then, leave and find something else that brings you happiness you deserve to feel.

well i think its quite obvious that if you're going to rely on something to carry your wishes, you might as well know where exactly it has come from and where it intends on going

I’ve learned that home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling.

That was other thing i hated about kids; they always said th exact things that deep dpwn you already knew, would never admit, and most certainly never wanted to hear.

I love it here in Boston and I love studying medicine. But it’s not home. Dublin is home. Being back with you felt like home. I miss my best friend. I’ve met some great guys here, but I didn’t grow up with any of them playing cops and robbers in my back garden. I don’t feel like they are real friends. I haven’t kicked them in the shins, stayed up all night on Santa watch with them, hung from trees pretending to be monkeys, played hotel, or laughed my heart out as their stomachs were pumped. It’s kind of hard to beat that.

I don't know why men like to barbecue so much. Maybe its the only thing they can cook. Or maybe they're just closet pyromaniacs.