I curled closer to May, comforted by her warmth.
For you, someone kind of quiet and mysterious-" "I'm not mysterious," I interrupted. "You are a little. And sometimes people don't know whether to interpret silence as confidence or fear. They're looking at you like you're a bug so maybe you'll feel like you are one.
You are not the world, but you are everything that makes the world good.
It's always the fear of looking stupid that stops you from being awesome.
It’s because I’m so good-looking, isn’t it?
Could it be that simple? Tell one story to one generation and repeat it until it was accepted as fact?