The act of trying to forget someone is a futile one. In order to do so, you are forced to remember. It’s like dieting. Like trying your hardest not to think about food, while weighing every ounce and counting every calorie.
I suppose in the end it’s almost too easy to look back and say what you should have done, how you might have changed things. What’s harder—what’s much, much harder—is to accept what you actually did do.
I wanted to tell you all my secrets, but you became one of them instead.
There’s a cafe in Los Feliz that has a table with drawers full of secrets inside. I didn’t leave one of my own tonight, partly because neither of us had a pen, but mostly because I was afraid someone I knew would find my note and recognize my impeccable penmanship.
One of my randoms who I haven’t seen or responded to in five years hit me up late last night. Who does that??? Please just forget about me, just like you seem to have forgotten that you have a girlfriend and babies at home.
Every morning, I wake up and forget just for a second that it happened. But once my eyes open, it buries me like a landslide of sharp, sad rocks. Once my eyes open, I’m heavy, like there’s too much gravity on my heart.
She was the third beer. Not the first one, which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude; nor the second, that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first. But the third, the one you drink because it’s there, because it can’t hurt, and because what difference does it make?
If people want to let you go, just let them do it. They may not understand who you are. So don’t play around with fire; don’t give them their cake and let them eat it, too. Here is your rule of thumb: they either commit to you or get none of you.
Why’s everyone still singing about California?
Haven’t we heard enough about the Golden State?
I guess if you like sandy beaches and blue ocean water
There’s something about it, to which I cannot relate