Living means taking chances. Risks. Playing safe all the time is being dead inside, even if you happen to still be breathing.

I'd like to cry now. Don't know how.

Perfection I've lived with the pretense of perfection for seventeen years. Give my room a cursory inspection, you'd think I have OCD. But it's only habit and not obsession that keeps it all orderly. Of course, I don't want to give the impression that it's all up to me.

I'm in love. And I like how that feels. And I hate how that feels. Because love is an invention of fiction writers.

Too much to take in, too much to purge. Why must every memory, once sweet, dead end in such ugliness?

When You Weren’t Looking The child became a woman, though she wasn’t ready to. Don’t ask how or why. Those questions are not important ones. Can’t you see you didn’t care enough to notice?

Too many people believe they can control their drug of choice. But the drug is almost always in control. If an addict truly wants help, it is available, but it is a rocky path. The monster always calls. Never give an addict money. Clothe them. Feed them. But enabling them is the quickest path to watching them fade away completely. This may seem harsh. But I've watched my own child relapse, after six years sober. I love her. Always. But I can't help her die.