Mosquitoland

Because even though honesty is hard, you really have to murder people with it if you expect to be a person of any value at all

Maybe there is some black and white, though. In our choices. In my choices.

I wonder if my sister can feel her mother’s touch. I hope so. And I hope she knows that kind of love is not nothing. It’s a huge something, maybe the biggest of all

that yes, even though the world was fucked up beyond measure, there was beauty to be had and it was waiting for them—maybe

“It’s okay,” I say again, because if I keep saying it, maybe it will be true. It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay

A person who was once full. A person who lived and dreamed, and above all, a person who cared for something—for someone. And within that person, he places the possibility of poof—gone—done—to be replaced by a Great Empty Nothingness.

“Did God mess up?” I asked.
“Nope,” said Bubbly Skinned Man, smiling like a fool. “He just got bored.”

I was lovely once, but he never loved me once

love found and love lost; fireworks, fortune cookies, famous rock stars, empty bottles, true compassion, false starts, staying up late, moonlight, sunlight, being a wife, being betrayed, being in my corner, being my mother, being, being, being.

Be curious, but content. Be loyal, but independent. Be kind. To everyone. Treat every day like you’re making waffles. Don’t settle for the first guy (or girl) unless he’s the right guy (or girl). Live your effing life. Do so with gusto, because my God, there’s nothing sorrier than a gusto-less existence. Know yourself. Love yourself. Be a good friend. Be a kid of hope and substance. Be a kid of appetite, Iz. You know what I mean, don’t you? (Of course you do. You’re a Malone.)