Love sucks. Sometimes it feels good. Sometimes it's just another way to bleed.

If people would write exactly what I wanted to read I wouldn't feel so compelled to write myself

I've been writing stories since I was 12. 'Writer's Digest' was one of my writing teachers, actually.

He gave a small nod, and I smiled back, and that was it. He understood that I'd understood that he'd understood. It took us one sentence, two looks, and a nod - with another woman it would have been at least five minutes of out-loud talking. Lucky for me I spoke fluent guy.

-Please, Anita, go home, and don’t freak. Just go home, and be happy. Be happy, and let everyone around you be happy. Is that so hard? When Jason said it like that, it didn’t seem hard. In fact, it seemed to make a lot of sense, but inside, it felt hard. Inside it felt like the hardest thing in the world. To just let go, and not pick everything to death. To just let go and enjoy what you had. To just let go and not make everybody around you miserable with your own internal dialogue. To just let go and be happy. So simple. So difficult. So terrifying.

I don't have a master. I'm not sure if I have an equal.

I give good advice. I do not always take it.