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a type by julia clarke
It was just a crush, but I still had a girlish hope that he would commit to me in some way other than a distant plan for pancakes.
There is justice, but only the small kind.
stop saying shit like you smell a psycho’s fear or this is a faded memory of a town
“He looks like a hamster,” my friend Sarah told me about the intern who broke my heart.
great romances are seldom typecasted
there was just no way to explain to them what I was doing
The great joy we have had in seeing each other again is more imaginary than real.
I have confessed time and time again to my close friends that it was a time of desperation. It seems to be the only palpable rationale that comes to mind for diving into a relationship that lacked vast amounts of euphoria and passion.
He appears to have discovered in you unsuspected treasures of the heart, and an unusual tenderness toward him in particular… In consequence he often says that he misses you. But I wonder why. You hardly ever talk to each other, you are never together. Does he miss you then, as one misses a piece of furniture or a pet bird?
The play opened, in this iteration, with the funeral of Hamlet’s father, a pallid start to a most dreary affair.
His father never supported his dancing until he became known the world over.
pouncing on our new repetoire
We dated for a six-month period. It felt like eternity.
He is a good man and a capable agent, but he has all the emotional maturity of a komodo dragon.