It is not growing like a tree in bulk doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere, A lily of a day is fairer in May Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant of flower and light, In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures, life may perfect be.
I disregard the proportions, the measures, the tempo of the ordinary world. I refuse to live in the ordinary world as ordinary women. To enter ordinary relationships. I want ecstasy. I am a neurotic — in the sense that I live in my world. I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.
There’s always that one guy who gets a hold on you. Not like your best friend’s brother who gets you in a headlock kind of hold. Or the little kid you’re babysitting who attaches himself to your leg kind of hold. I’m talking epic. Life changing. The “can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t do your homework, can’t stop giggling, can’t remember anything but his smile†kind of hold. Like, Wesley and Buttercup proportions. Harry and Sally. Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy. The kind of hold in all your favorite ’80s songs, like the “Must Have Been Loveâ€s, the “Take My Breath Awayâ€s, the “Eternal Flameâ€s—the ones you sing into a hairbrush-microphone at the top of your lungs with your best friends on a Saturday night.