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Charlotte D.

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“It starts so young, and I'm angry about that. The garbage we're taught. About love, about what's "romantic." Look at so many of the so-called romantic figures in books and movies. Do we ever stop and think how many of them would cause serious and drastic unhappiness after The End? Why are sick and dangerous personality types so often shown a passionate and tragic and something to be longed for when those are the very ones you should run for your life from? Think about it. Heathcliff. Romeo. Don Juan. Jay Gatsby. Rochester. Mr. Darcy. From the rigid control freak in The Sound of Music to all the bad boys some woman goes running to the airport to catch in the last minute of every romantic comedy. She should let him leave. Your time is so valuable, and look at these guys--depressive and moody and violent and immature and self-centered. And what about the big daddy of them all, Prince Charming? What was his secret life? We dont know anything about him, other then he looks good and comes to the rescue.”
― Deb Caletti, The Secret Life of Prince Charming

tags: books, garbage, heathcliff, jay-gatsby, love, men, movies, mr-darcy, prince-charming, rochester, romantic, romeo, time, waste

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“Abigail,’ he says. ‘I thought it was you.’
‘Hi!’ I say loudly. ‘Mark!’
‘Who?’ says Robert. Fuck, he doesn’t know his real name. Why do I give everyone stupid nicknames?
‘I almost don’t recognise you out of your SKINNY JEANS,’ I enunciate carefully. He’s wearing grey flannel trousers and a pink T-Shirt with leather Converses. He speaks clothes exceptionally confidently for a straight man. I wonder if he’d take me shopping.
‘Oh, right. Got it.’
‘That’s odd,’ says Skinny Jeans. ‘Since I was wearing nothing at all when you left my room without saying goodbye . . . let’s see, seven weeks ago?’
‘Um, yes. Well, you know . . .’ I trail off. Come on, Robert, I think desperately.
‘I’m sorry, were you planning on making me breakfast in bed?’ says Robert. Yes! Make a joke!
‘I’m sorry, were you planning on making me breakfast in bed?’ I say.
Skinny Jeans grins.
‘Scrambled eggs? Toast? On a little tray?’
‘Scrambled eggs? Toast? On a little tray with a rose on it?’ I say.
‘Don’t fuck with my script,’ says Robert, which makes me grin slightly more broadly”
― Gemma Burgess

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