I love this post. It is so true!
I mean every word of this, more strongly than I feel about anything else. Don’t fall in love with a girl who reads. I wouldn’t.
She will accentuate herself in the essence of Sylvia Plath, hiding it in the layers of her skin. Her body will have scars that Shakespearean tragedies can only rave about. Her fantasies will be grander than the life spent at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Her solace will be in the nights that she spends wrapped up in the arms of Murukami and Bukowski. She will try to search between your lips for words that only Fitzgerald would say, only to be erased later. She will hope for the aching of Vladimir Nobokov to run in your groins. She will secretly wish that Leo Tolstoy could write her your story, even before it ever began.. Her life will never be as vivid and compelling…
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