A Girl Could Never Have Too Much

People Talk Of Sorrow As If It Is Soft, A Thing Of Water And Tears. But True Sorrow Is Not Soft. True Sorrow Is A Thing Of Fire, And Rock. It Burns Your Heart, Crushes Your Soul Under The Weight Of Mountains. It Destroys, And Even If You Keep Breathing, Keep Going, You Die.

He Laughed, And It Raised Goose-bumps On My Arms. "oh,ma Petite ,ma Petite , You Are Precious." Just What I Wanted To Hear. "so How Are You Getting Here?" "my Private Jet." Of Course, He Had A Private Jet. "when Can You Be Here?" "i Will Be There As Soon As I Can, My Impatient Flower." "i Prefer Ma Petite To Flower.

Hatred Makes Us All Ugly.

What We Prefer To Read Is Sort Of Like Sexual Preference, You Like What You Like. Most Of The Time You Have No Clue Why.

When In Doubt, Ignore And Be Horribly Unimpressed