counting days

     ❝ Okay, that is a very negative mindset. I          can feel my entire self getting sadder ❞ 

  "Really? Because, I'd say self-deceit is much more negative.    Pretty unhealthy, too, according to the studies.”

It was clear that she meant her words; that she dreaded  even the thought of failing – of having to move back to her hometown, back in with her parents because she wasn’t able to make anything of herself. She simply refused.

"Well——if you’re really planning on it, you should make sure they don't have chytrid or something first." Of course, this is his idea of some sort of friendly remark, made half in jest and half in lighthearted reassurance.

      ❝ Oh, come on. Why are you always so pessimistic           about everything. It’s depressing. ❞

"It's only depressing  because reality is depressing."

Groucho Marx (via tanya-nicole)

“Yeah, well, it’s a free country- at least I’m doing it discreetly, right?” He finishes up, the sound of the zipper ringing out. “’Least I didn’t piss on your shoes.”

"I think it might be illegal, actually——public urination, that is,” the zipping sound comes as a big relief to Darren, and he returns eye contact with a grimace. “But, like you said, at least you didn’t piss on my shoes.”

A Woman of Paris: A Drama of Fate, Charlie Chaplin, 1923

The blond looks so out of it right now, with his whole outfit and absent knowledge  on wine, Tyrell looked close to a babbling idiot. What an embarrassing first way to meet someone. 

“Spottswoode makes an excellent Cabernet Sauvignon, but,” a quick look over the man’s attire confirms his suspicions, “I have a hunch you won’t be able to afford it, so . . . why not go with La Crema’s Pinot Noir? It’s sort of a go-to for a ‘classy’, affordable grocery store wine.”

    “   because you know what she looks like, I bet.”     She enjoyed placing in the last word, but she knew     he wasn’t fazed by it anyway. “Dunno how you keep     sane all day. We’ve got a bet in the office for when you     finally lose your mind. I said give it a good three weeks.”

"Don't need to—seaweed green doesn’t look good on anyone, especially not on someone who’s approaching their fiftieth.” The office bet he was just now being made aware of— joke or not—might have surprised him a few years ago, when he had just started his job, but at this point many uneventful work hours were spent making similar wagers with himself, perhaps standing testimony that his sanity, or at least his peace of mind, really was a thing of the past. “You might want to tell them they’re about three years too late—I probably lost it when I agreed to write the goddamn column.”

“Fuck? Fuck no man- what, can’t a guy piss in an alley in piece? Shit. Fuck the fuck off.”

"I think most would say no,” he’s trying really hard not to stare as he speaks, eyes tilted towards the ground, “but, I’m guessing you don’t really care.”

{ i’m about to work on some replies so  like this post for a starter, or inbox me to plot !!! }

“I suggest checkin’ anyway, ’cause it sounds like y’got something stuck up there…”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you’d know all about that.”

    “Don’t you sometimes think your advice’s are a bunch of eh’s?      I mean reading them and taking in the advice is one thing,     but you look like you’d rather be elsewhere staring at the     wall than writing with meaning. But hey, I enjoyed     reading this weeks column. Who would’ve     thought you could write a convincing     response to a mum wanting to     change her hairstyle… really. ”

   “The look she wanted to go for just didn’t    seem . . . like it would work for her, you know?”    He is, of course, ignoring everything else being    said, tone dry, on the cusp of being bitter.