"love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. if you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give it to no one, not even an animal. wrap it carefully round hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your own selfishness. but in that casket--safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. it will not be broken. it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. to love is to be vulnerable" - c.s. lewis
and i'd much, much rather be one of the latter. they are _proper_ men, the sort of men that women have in mind when they moan about us. it's a safe, solid, meaningless stereotype: the man who appears not to give a shit, who gets ditched and maybe sits in the pub on his own for a couple of evenings, and then gets on with things; and though next time around he trusts even less than he did, he hasn't made a fool of himself, or frightened anybody...
hedonistica
thesuperficial
big bunny
making fiends
penny arcade
1 Comments:
heh, there are also women who don't call, and women who would rather you called them (only two types).
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