Bokelskere.no

I’ve never once thought about the interpretative, the storytelling aspect of life, of my life. I always felt like I was in a story, yes, but not like I was the author of it, or like I had any say in its telling whatsoever. You can tell your story any way you damn well please. It’s your solo.

There are people everywhere standing in line at the movies, buying curtains, walking dogs, while inside, their hearts are ripping to shreds. For years. For their whole lives. I don't believe time heals. I don't want it to. If I heal, doesn't that mean I've accepted the world without her?

But then I think about my sister and what a shelless turtle she was and how she wanted me to be one too. C'mon, Lennie, she used to say to me at least ten times a day. C'mon, Len. And that makes me feel better, like it's her life rather than her death that is now teaching me how to be, who to be.

When you say nasty things about people, you should never say the true ones, because you can’t really fully and honestly take those back.

It is so hard to leave—until you leave. And then it is the easiest goddamned thing in the world.

Let me give you some advice: let her come home. I mean, at some point, you gotta stop looking up at the sky, or one of these days you’ll look back down and see that you floated away.

3 whole Catfish, Wrapped seperately
Veet (It's for Shaving your legs Only you don't Need A razor It's with all the Girly cosmetic stuff)
Vaseline
six-pack, Mountain Dew
One dozen Tulips
one Bottle Of water
Tissues
one Can of blue Spray paint

"Interesting capitalization," I said.
"Yeah. I'm a big believer in random capitalization. The rules of capitalization are so unfair to words in the middle."

And I know I can do this because I went to London on my own, and because I solved the mystery of Who Killed Wellington? and I found my mother and I was brave and I wrote a book and that means I can do anything.

I have tried to change before and I have failed. I have tried to change again and again and again and I have failed over and over and over. If there was something to make me think this time was different, I would try, but there isn't.

I turn and I slowly walk away and I don't look back. It has always been a fault of mine, but it is the way I am. I never look back. Never.

I have always dealt with pain alone. I will deal with it alone now.

If there was a God, I would spit in his face for subjecting me to this. If there was a Devil, I would sell him my soul to make it end.

Ingen vil bli sett på når dei græt, alt det vonde i brystkassa forvandlar ansiktet til noko ugjenkjenneleg.

Eg brukte fleire timar i butikken, for å finne heilt enkle ting som syltetøy og lettmjølk, eg mangle eit språk, eg kunne sjå at blomkål var blomkål, men ikkje uttale det. Så eg gjekk heim og la alle varene mine utover bordet, fann fram ordbok og lærte meg alt utanat, flytta inn i byen ord for ord.

Jeg smiler flere meter over sykkelen, for jeg er atten nå og kan kjenne igjen en løgn.

Sofie tar hånden min og vi danser til vi ikke kjenner oss tunge og mette lenger, jeg tror vi tenker på det samme da, i hvert fall føles det sånn, jeg ser det på måten vi smiler bekreftende til hverandre på, at vi tenker på alt vi har i vente. Vi vet ikke hva det er, men etter all rødvinen og dansingen tror vi det blir bra.

Jeg har begynt å trives alene, jeg står opp tidlig og lager havregrøt og drikker te, gjør i stand sykkelen før jeg drar ut, og jeg bruker lang tid, aldri har jeg følt meg like oppmerksom, jeg hører på gresshoppene i veikanten, de spiller hver morgen, på gressinstrumengene sine, små knappenåler, jeg sykler i varme og regn og du bare venter, i et hus i Roma, for meg er du blitt et hus, et stort hus, et stort lioner, det er så mye du koster, det er så mye det føles, det er så mye jeg ofrer, hver gang.

Lydene er så kjente, og rommet så lite at hele meg fylles av ingenting, og den følelsen du har av at alle andre opplever noe utenom deg, at alle andre har begynt livene sine på ordentlig, går på de festene du bare ser på film, kysser de gutta du ikke tør å si hei til i skolegården, de går og legger seg med et smil om munnen, mens du ligger våken og skriver i daboka di om alt som ikke skjer.

Det er fremdeles sommer, men den lever ikke lenger, den har stoppet opp uten å visne, og høsten er ikke klar til å komme.