So which is it.
Is the universe designed for cynicism, or optimism?
Both messages are shoved down our throats; opposites.
We are, all of us, alone.
All you need is love.
No one else can make you happy.
Love is the answer.
Depend only on yourself for happiness.
Have faith in your dreams, and someday your rainbow will come shining through.
Which is it?
This talking out of both sides of your mouth shit is getting tiring.
If I’m supposed to stop hoping, that’s just fine.
Just tell me now so I can cut my expectations to a minimum.
There’s a romantic concept.
Become self-reliant, self-contained, self-tanned.
Don’t need anyone else.
Become an island.
Everyman is an island.
Everywoman is bottle floating around in the ocean, hoping to wash up on some lucky island’s deserted beach.
a desperate bottle full of a message no one will read the way it was written.
Do it for YOU, girlfriend. Screw guys.
Just join that gym for yourself.
Take some time.
Get to know yourself.
Focus on you.
They’re all assholes anyways.
All you need is love.
Whatever you put out into the universe is what you’ll get back.
Show your smile every chance you get, you never know who could be falling in love with it.
You’ll only know what it means to be complete when you have a family.
It’ll happen when you’re not looking.
Just stop looking.
It’ll happen when you least expect it.
read: don’t expect it.
So we have to choose the path of pessimism.
We have to pretend we DON’T want it.
It’s really the most masochistic mutation of the virgin/madonna complex.
Just wait patiently.
But not knowingly.
Be the unwilling chum next to your own sharkdiving cage.
Dress up for yourself and your girlfriends, but keep that bikini line waxed because you never know when your Prince Harming will stumble into your life, wanting a sandwich, and realize you always keep white bread and light mayo in stock.
Just like he always dreamed of.
No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing, the dream that you wish will come true.
The truth of the matter is that this is a lie. No one gets a fairytale. Not even everyone gets the decency of some fucking woodland creatures to braid her hair.
If you pick at the varnish, the fairy godmother starts to sound a bit like your mother who has a few ideas about what you’re doing wrong.
The mice get stuck on the trap-paper before they turn into steeds.
and the final bell in the clock-tower chimes, and all it means is that you’ve overslept your alarm.