Time Heals All Wounds. And If It

I Do Think Everything That Happens In American Pop Culture Sort Of Prescribes For England And Does End Up Happening There Six Months Later, Maybe A Year.

He Was Addicted To Me And Now He Has Gone Cold Turkey. He Used To Send Me Fifty Texts A Day. And Now He Is Ignoring Me. It's Like I Was Once His Barack Obama. And Now I Am John Mccain, Conceding Defeat Like A Sad-face Sock Puppet, Knowing I Have Sold The Best Of Myself. He, My Electorate, Not Only Does Not Want Me, He Actively Feels Pity.

Is It Needy? It's Not. We Don't Need Each Other. We Just Really, Really Enjoy Each Other. And We're Good Together. We're Good People Together. And I Have The Funniest Feeling. I Can Really, Truly Touch This All, This Happiness And The Sadness Too, I Can Trace All Of It With My Fingers. It Isn't Theoretical Or Distant. This Feels Like Me. This Is Me. I Love Him, And, For The First Time In A Relationship, I Also Like Me. Every Time He Says "i Love You," I Answer, "i Believe You.

I Wish I Had Been Less Keen To Inject My Own Opinions, But I Was A Teenager And Your Teenage Self Is Generally An Idiot Compared To The Adult You. That's The Way It Should Be. If It's The Other Way Around, You Have A Problem.

I Wouldn't Say That My Emotions Are Extreme. I'd Say They Are Committed. My Moods Are The Equivalent Of Madonna's Dancing: Inappropriate But All-out. If I'm Going To Be Sad, I Might As Well Be The Saddest A Girl Can Get. And If I'm Happy, I Want To Be The Happiest. The Trouble Is, I Feel Highs So Ecstatic That Just Being Normal Feels Like A Thousand-mile Drop And Being Unhappy Is Excruciating.