S. Walden Quotes

I expect the world from you, as I should, because you're amazing and talented and funny and sweet. You're sexy as hell and clever and smart and capable of so many things. So yeah. I expect a hell of a lot from you. And I also expect that you can be successful in managing your OCD. I'm proud of you, Bailey.

I love you," he said. "This couldn't be a dumber place and time to tell you, I know. But, God, Bailey. I love you." He paused. "I love you.

Ryan, when did you get a girlfriend?" his sister asked.
"She's not my girlfriend, Kaylen," Ryan replied. "Go away.

Brooke, why don't we talk about you instead? You seem much more interesting." I started feeling frustrated. "I'm sure that's not true. Why are you so mysterious?

You've dated a shoplifter. A drug addict. A girl who claimed that her roommate kept her locked in a dumpster. She was admitted to Mulberry not too long ago, if I recall, right? They diagnosed her with schizophrenia." Reece nodded reluctantly. "For the record, I only dated her for two months. And also for the record, she's doing a lot better." "Hmm," Camden replied. "There's the one who put salt on all her food then complained incessantly of bloating problems. Oh yeah! And the one who wanted you to tie her up and beat the shit out of her every night." "All right already!" Reece snapped. "I get it. I haven't had the best of luck with normal women.

Ryan chuckled. "You're going to be my trouble this year, aren't you?" he asked softly. Hell yeah I was.

She cried then, letting the raw emotions overtake her. She cried for the loss of her youth that bled out on a bathroom floor many years ago. She cried for the fairytale shattered by an exploding gun. She cried for all of the things she could not tell him, the regret, the fear of a future marked by desperation for things she could never have. She cried for the babies she would never bear. She pleaded for God to take away her memories of him, but they came one by one, spilling into the forefront of her mind, vivid as the moment they had just happened. And she was seventeen all over again, lying beside him in his warm bed, and had just loved him, was drunk with the love he had poured into her.

I want Little Noah looking like a beat-up mess by the time he's eighteen."
"Why?"
"Cause no woman wants a delicate man. He needs to be sporting at least five scars.

I never got my Pompeii," I said, low and even. "And you know I deserved every bit of it. But I'm not going to erupt all over you like I'm owed. Because I've already won. She's not fucking you tonight.

I don't know. It's the world we live in, I guess. Some things will never be fair.

Fuck the world. Do what you feel is right, and you have every right to love whomever you want.

You're mad at me. I get it. I get what this is all about. And I don't know what more I can do, Cadence. I've apologized to you. I'm sorry. Genuinely sorry for lying to you. Why can't you accept that?

First, I like how the ice cream won out. Second, we're not having sex.

That's the great thing about hope - no matter your past, no matter your mistakes, hope is the constant force in your heart driving you forward. You fall down. You cry about it for a little while. And then you stand up again. You push forward. You never give up because you believe something good will come. I'm lonely now, but something good will come.
Hope is my one healthy compulsion.

It's always described as melting, and I finally understood why. I thought my body was turning to liquid. I could feel my bones giving way, threatening to dissolve and leave me one big puddle of goo.

I'm talking about the kind of indignity that changes you as a person, makes you withdraw, hide from the world because suddenly it's turned into something frightening - full of dark corners and monsters.

Oh my God, he thought suddenly. I've got a hard-on. "You want some or what?" Bailey asked softly. Reece took the water and drank down a sizeable amount. He grew paranoid that she could see his hard-on, but that would be impossible. The lights were dim. There was an armrest between them. Relax, bro. You're cool. She can't see your . . . oh, wait a minute. There it goes. It's going down. Phew! Thank God. How embarrassing would that have been, right? For her to see how much she turns me on? How much I can't stop thinking about the kind of panties she wears under those cigarette pants. The way her tits look in her button-up tops. Man, I love how she buttons them all the way up . . . wait a minute. Hold up. I mean down! Go down! Stupid dick!

Oil paints were wiser to the human condition, understanding our imperfections and giving us enough time to rework ourselves until we made things right.

She danced with complete abandon. She never felt so light and free. She could stretch her arms forever, touch the heavens and pull down the stars. She would give him the stars to keep in his pocket, she thought. They would bring him good luck. She jumped and laughed and drew giggles from some of the other girls. She felt high, though she never before experienced a drug high. But then what was she thinking? He was her drug, and she felt high on the dark, rich honey. Honey that matched the color of his eyes. She could drink him to overflowing and never be satisfied. She was filled with the honey even now; it coursed through her limbs - a powerful, exotic, demanding potion that ordered her to dance. And so she did. She danced.

It was over. He knew, but she did not. He could tell by the way she nuzzled him, how her body relaxed in his embrace, how she sighed when he kissed the top of her head. She was still hopeful, he thought, and that made her beautiful. Suddenly he could not bear to imagine a life without her.

He wanted into her life. He was dying to be invited.

Love comes in all kinds of packages. Some are neatly tied up, and some are messy. It doesn't mean that the messy ones aren't every bit as good.

Well that was decided. This was more than a silly schoolgirl crush. This was a deeply disturbing infatuation.