It is painful to realize I am no longer your number one. It is more heartbreaking to see who has replaced me. On the list of people to care for and cherish forever onward you are crowned in the head seat. I appear to bare a silver medal on yours, second to a man who takes you and hides you from me. A man who encourages you to drink and strive for mediocre.
“It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
“I don’t understand why Pretty Woman has become such an iconic film. It is a story about how a wealthy man makes a prostitute become his personal escort. He pays her to have sex with her throughout the movie and then in the end he sends her to college. What does that say that girls idolize her?”—My mother on Pretty Woman
“Since birth modern women have been told that we can do and be anything we want. Be an astronaut, the head of an internet company, a stay at home mom. There aren’t any rules anymore and the choices are endless, and apparently they can all be delivered right to your door. But is it possible that we have been so spoiled by choices that we have become unable to make one. That a part of us knows that once you chose something – one man, one great apartment, one amazing job – another option goes away. Are we a generation of women who can’t choose just one from column A, did we all have too much to handle, or was Samantha right, can we have it all”—Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City
I wrote John a series of letters for about a total of a two years (on and of) and gave them to him for our two year anniversary. They talked about my family, my hopes, my past, our love, our adventures, and basically anything that crossed my mind at the end of each day.
However, those are some of my best writings and I no longer have access to them. I entered one for my finalist piece in a national writing competition and another one got past three levels of publication in the New Yorker (so close-3 out of 4).
I wish I had that book so I could type them and have them all in one place not scattered all over his hole of entropy called a room. Suppose I’ll just have to write more…