I get excited by little things I don’t know, I get excited to know more about what’s inside peoples hearts and the magic in the world.
I wish I had a someone who would oberserve me silently, who would capture all my habits and quirks, and still love me. Someone that would get lost in how my fine features define my face, while smiling or crying, and still love me.
Oh my God, what if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn’t go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.