Rebekah

I met you at Arby’s. In line for a roast beef sandwich with coupons from your local paper. I never understood why Arby’s puts out coupons. Puts out like a cheap whore, you had said. “With discounts,” I agreed as you paid for your sex with your coupons. Delicious meat packed between two buns. Arby’s really knows how to treat a man.

We started to talk and you waited with me while they toasted my buns. Right then I was wishing that it was you toasting my buns. When I got my sexy sandwich, we sat down together and you said, “Baby, what’s your profession?”

I grinned at you, Cheshire cat-like and sexier than both our sandwiches combined and said, “I’m a stripper.” You sort of blinked at me so I had to say, “No, really.”

“Well, okay, but what do you do?”

“I take off my clothes and sit in men’s laps and whisper things of romance into their ears. I’m a stripper and a poet, all for the price of one.” He seemed to get it then. I saw the sadness in his eyes.

“What did you want to be?” he said.

I had about finished my sandwich by then. I felt nervous as hell because I really sort of like ol’ No-Name. “Jane Goodall,” I told him, and then I threw away my trash and thought about that reg on Tuesday, Mike, and how much he’d love this story whispered in his rich, middle-aged ear.

Taste is just that: taste. You are no better than I am if you like boys and I like girls. I am no better than you are if I don’t like pasta and you do. But most importantly, you are not better because of what music you listen to. It’s fucking taste. Opinions. You can never say that a certain artist sucks. That is not universal, that is not a fact. It’s opinion, it’s taste. I hope one day you realize: you are above no one.

“The flowers have been growing thorns for millions of years. For millions of years the sheep have been eating them just the same. And is it not a matter of consequence to try to understand why the flowers go to so much trouble to grow thorns which are never of any use to them? Is the warfare between the sheep and the flowers not important? Is this not of more consequence than a fat red-faced gentleman’s sums? And if I know— I, myself— one flower which is unique in the world, which grows nowhere but on my planet, but which one little sheep can destroy in a single bite some morning, without even noticing what he is doing— Oh! You think that is not important!”

His face turned from white to red as he continued:

“If some one loves a flower, of which just one single blossom grows in all the millions and millions of stars, it is enough to make him happy just to look at the stars. He can say to himself, ‘Somewhere, my flower is there…’ But if the sheep eats the flower, in one moment all his stars will be darkened… And you think that is not important!”

-The Little Prince

If you could fly to France in one minute, you could go straight into the sunset, right from noon. Unfortunately, France is too far away for that. But on your tiny planet, my little prince, all you need do is move your chair a few steps. You can see the day end and the twilight falling whenever you like…

“One day,” you said to me, “I saw the sunset forty-four times!”

And a little later you added:

“You know— one loves the sunset, when one is so sad…”

“Were you so sad, then?” I asked, “on the day of the forty-four sunsets?”

But the little prince made no reply.

-The Little Prince

My friend never explained anything to me. He thought, perhaps, that I was like himself. But I, alas, do not know how to see sheep through the walls of boxes. Perhaps I am a little like the grown-ups. I have had to grow old.

-The Little Prince

I am every bit as awkward and difficult as I come off. Who was it that put me in this confident, easy-going skin? And when am I allowed out?

Today I made six origami fortune tellers. I wrote “you’re beautiful” on the inside of every single flap and left them on various shelves in the library. I hope nobody pretty finds them. I want that heavy girl with the acne who sits in the back of my chemistry class to find one, to take it home and show her mom. I want that awkward Hindu girl to find one, the girl who barely speaks any English, but knows enough to understand what the fortunes say. I want everyone who has ever felt sad or excluded because of their body or their face to find one and to understand that they are beautiful, even if I have to kill a thousand trees to make all the tellers.

I always want to be “that girl.” Not that girl, the one who drinks and can’t seem to keep her skirt in place. But the one with three books in her bag and scrapes on her knees because she lost count of the steps. Again.

begaylittlebird:

awesomejuice:

thedailywhat:

Spot on.

[via.]

justalittlefaith: fiddlersgreen: dailyobsession