Coco J. Ginger Quotes
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He's just not that into you, if he doesn't have a heart.
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I’ll dream up a world where you never existed. A world you could never live in. I’ll live there without you.
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Time to get a go on this drop-dead-gorgeous morning.
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Love is not of value when this superficial contract must be drawn up, representing the two worlds that enclose us.
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I hate you. I hate you like the girl who hates cake because it makes her fat and she can’t stop eating it.
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You'll never like me, but you'll always love me.
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I had hoped to be disliked by most, not by way of rebellion, but by way of excellence, disdain for the habitual, and the common man’s inability to grasp this. The act of being scorned? I saw it as a victory, my irreverent boast against this world which could never fully quench me.
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If I wasn't so phenomenal. I would go back to you.
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You’ll lie again, you’ll do it again. Friends, not friends, friends, not friends, I’m on your dime, I’m on your time, and I don’t exist where there is a YOU.
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He's just not that into you if he is a sociopath.
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Here I sit like a brainless robot writing the uncensored, chaotic, evil thoughts springing about in my temperamental female brain.
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Bittersweet? No, just bitter, the taste of your tongue. Words you can’t have back, so they linger.
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You're too big for another heart beat, unable to sync with my capricious heart beating.
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Some girls need men to take them places. Others just click their heels, spread their own wings, and fly.
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....hurts not just the heart, but every part.
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I won’t let you have it. I won’t give you this moment. I won’t let you fill up this valuable organ...I own it. I won’t do it. I can’t think, I won’t think about it.
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I wear my heart on my blog.
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I’m mistaken….for thinking you were someone with a heart worth breaking.
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Writer? A complimentary term to conceal one’s insanities.
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You own me, because you are me.
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Overexposing my innards to careless hearts and hands is a practice I am prepared to stop performing.
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He brought out the worst in me, and was the best thing that ever happened to me.
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Her heart had grown so familiar to the pain of life without him, that to respond now seemed too large a pleasure she could not endure. If pain was love, then she loved fiercely. Yet knew she could not be near that boy again.
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What is love, if not the abandonment of all sanity, all dignity?