Weight: Too much.
Cigarettes: Too few.
Food: Unappetizing (tuna salad).
I went to see the movie adaption of my favourite book last week, the perks of being a wallflower. (I’ve written about it before, over here).
I went on Thursday to Cinema Nouveau in Cavendish, the last night the cinema was open. It closed it’s doors forever on Friday. Perhaps worthy of a post in itself, but not today.
It’s a great movie, you should see it. I thought I wouldn’t be able to separate Emma Watson from Hermione Granger, but I could. Never once did I expect to see a wand appear from her pocket.
The thing is though, my love for the book has nothing to do with the story line and everything to do with how Stephen Chbosky sews words together to make sentences.
As lovely as the movie was, it was about the story and not about the words.
The first time I read the book, I couldn’t even tell you what the story was about. But I could quote lines from it. Lines which tell a story of their own. Lines thick with emotion, lines you want to wrap around yourself like a blanket because finally there’s a way to say it.
Some people are lucky in love. And some people are me. I always wonder why some people are happy from the start and others have to work harder to get there. Do we do it to ourselves? Is that the only answer?
I’m used to people leaving me. That’s the pattern. And people scoff and scold and tell me not to be ridiculous. But perhaps I’m not being ridiculous. Perhaps the mistake I’m making is wondering what’s wrong with me instead of wondering whats wrong with them.
Or perhaps the mistake is wondering why they didn’t love me and not why I allowed them to not love me.
I accept the love I think I deserve.
I deserve to be loved.
You know how sometimes the sound of a name can feel like a kick to the stomach?