If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?
(Or, a rare glimpse into my heart.)
I think what I really learned from years of being slutty is that kissing is the best part.
Unless you’re getting into a relationship, there’s this inevitable sadness to all sexual encounters — even good sexual encounters, even the best sex — because it means the end of it all. The end of the flirtation, the moment of promise, the anticipation, and — in some cases, at least — the end of your acquaintance with that person. Suddenly this person, so full of promise, is just another name on your list of people you’ve fucked; another entry to the database of places you’ve been.
Kissing, on the other hand, extends the moment of anticipation, heightens the desire, keeps you wondering and guessing what, exactly, that moment of climax would be like. Kissing is the question, and fucking is the answer — and the answer is never as good as you hoped.
What I’m really trying to say, I guess, is that I long ago lost the desire to fuck every hot stranger who passes by, but I still really want to make out with people.
The old believe everything, the middle-aged suspect everything, and the young know everything.
It’s the sweetest of moments when the fire takes control, and you’re no longer responsible for anything.
It doesn’t matter if your life is large or small. It only matters that it’s the right size for you.
It’s sad when someone you know becomes someone you knew.
