Kristen D. Randle Quotes

The thing about me is – essentially, I'm a coward.

I am. I can't stand weird stuff, anything that's not normal. […]

I'm a coward, and I've faced it, and I've learn to accept it. And I'm okay with that, as long as nothing happens so I have to start feeling ashamed about it, or guilty.

I don't think my parents know this about me. […]

But the other thing is, I just hate it when people are disappointed in me.

I think that things happen, and if you don't do something to change them, they just keep happening. Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes it's a nightmare.

And then I did the stupidest thing I've ever done. "They're not here," I said. I knew, as the words left my mouth, that I had just made a deep mistake.

Why would I assume that the guy wanted to hurt me when nobody's ever tried to hurt me before?

I walked Sam up to his door and gave him a huge hug. He looked me over in the porch light and leaned over - just a little. He whispered, "You know, I'm glad you wore this costume tonight. Now I know, when you're fifty three, you're still gonna be lookin' good." So I hit him. Which really wasn't what I was wanting to do.

...it depends on whose reality you're using for rules. You just have to remember that, and then you can see that nothing should be taken absolutely seriously. Personally, I always like to use my own reality as a standard.

There is a difference," I said stiffly, "between being naive and being innocent.

Education is one of the Grand Christianson Obsessions. They've been whole years my mother's kept us home for intensive private study. As a result of that, Paul will perform the first brain transplant, James will someday build a bridge across the Atlantic Ocean, Charlie – who is an actual musical genius – will probably end up writing the Great American Symphony, and I – I know a little bit about a lot of things.
I can tell you the chemical composition of the stuff your stick in your hair; how long it would take you, at just under the speed of light, to get to Alpha Centauri – and how old your body would be when you finally got there; the middle name of the third president of the United States; the amount of the present budget deficit; the author of the Brothers Karamazov, and how many feet there are in a line of trochaic heptameter. The Little Girl Who Had to Know Why, Paul used to call me. But even my mother couldn't reconcile me and math.

Then we were quiet. Quiet isn't easy. Especially with virtual strangers. They say that nature hates a vacuum, and so it's kind of natural to want to fill up a human silence with words - any kind of lame words. But there was such a feeling of space around us that my first self-conscious word died long before I ever felt it on my tongue.

But here in the open air, this naked, solitary fiddle began a rhythm that played havoc with time, making patterns that set you to moving and told your heart it had been beating the wrong way all your misspent life.

So naturally, I caught myself making up personalities for him - you know, the way you do with pets and cute boys and famous people. What's that called? Anthropomorphism. You do it so that you feel like you can relate personally to whatever it is – your dog, or God or whatever. You do that so you can care about things, and so that life at least appears to make sense. And maybe you do it so you can feel like something cares about you.
The dangerous thing about doing that, Paul told me one time, is what you end up caring about isn't necessarily what's really there – just what you've decided is there.
Which may be very far from the truth. So you could very easily end up depending on a lie. Or a dream.

I'm convinced that each human being more or less builds his own reality. You are what you believe you are. We make images in our minds of what will be---based on what we believe or want, what we're afraid of---

This is home. This is where we are. This is the place we store our love. You just have to be content to be in your own skin, that's all". Charlie to Ginny

I miss you. You don't know how much I miss you. You don't know how my heart sinks inside me when I think how far away you are. But then, maybe you know that feeling. I hope you do. No, I wouldn't wish that on you. But then, yes I would . . .. Forgive me for missing you that much.

Trust is weird," my mother said. "People give it too easily, most of the time. Because somebody is attractive, they expect him to be good or honest. Or like pushy salesmen - somebody who carefully makes you feel like you're emotionally obligated to trust them. Like you're the rude one if you don't. Trust is really something that needs to be earned. Hard earned. If somebody every says, 'Don't you trust me?' Just say, "No, as a matter of fact.

I caught a sob before it quite broke, surprised at how quickly it had cut me.

He laughed, looking down into his empty cup. "Decent people don't expect that kind of twistedness." He put the cup down on the floor. "And if they ever did suspect it, they'd just blame themselves for thinking too mean. You should trust your disquiet the next time. That's what it's there for. A man like that gets where he is by seeming. And then he makes you feel obligated to him. It's an old trick.

So every person sets up his own rules, and then uses them to judge everybody else. You just have to realize that.There is no real normal. You have to just decide what you believe. And stay open to new ideas. For the time being I am using my own concept of reality as a guide." Ginny to Caulder and Micheal

You are what you believe you are.We make images in our minds of what will be based on what we believe or want, what we're afraid of." Dr. Woodhouse to Caulder and Ginny

Every person defines reality in his own way. And every person figures that anybody who doesn't agree with him has got to be irrational.

People allow themselves to be defeated

Listen very hard and follow your heart. Your heart is good. It's your brain that gets you into trouble.

And you know what? You can't make me responsible for you and the choices you make." I turned around and started walking toward the house.

I? Why hadn't I trusted myself? Because I'd trusted the woman across the street instead, that's why. That grown up. That Assistant Principal. So in a way, it had been my fault. But in another way, not. But no matter whose fault it was, I still had bruises on my arms. And now, memories I didn't want.