Best 95 quotes in «relatable quotes» category

He felt to be two tea bags away from making some progress on the entire situation, and that was a precise calculation. Any caffeine drinker excels in this area of mathematics.

Her heart felt like it had been thrown around like a child on a twenty-foot seesaw--exhilarating highs followed by crashing lows, only to repeat with new joys and terrifying fears. It left her light-headed, off-balance, and a tiny bit nauseated.

He inquired with the confidence of anyone trying free samples at a grocery store and putting on an Oscar-worthy performance of a person that was going to come back and buy it all later.

He turned on hearing a noise, and perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and quitting the hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form hardly appeared capable.

He was no stranger to middle fingers anyways; in Texas he had worked for a graphic design company, and the art world is overflowing with such fingers. At times almost exclusively.

He would be provided for even if he made no discernible contribution to the world - and right now he had no desiire to contribute anything to the world but his bodily waste.

How am I supposed to make big decisions when I still have to sing the alphabet to myself to alphabetize stuff?

He grieved too, Klara said, for the loss of a certain idea of himself.

I am always disappointed with someone who loves me - how perfect can he be if he can't see through me?

He threw an arm over his head to shield his eyes. “The world is a cruel place. Do not force me to face it right now.

I am going to shrink and shrink until I am a dry fall leaf, complete with a translucent spine and brittle veins, blowing away in a stiff wind, up, up, up into a crisp blue sky.

I am what I am, and there's much about me that won't be changed with any amount of wishing or wanting. I'm sorry for that. I'd trade a great deal to share an afternoon in the hay with you, dust in the air and sweat on our skins and neither of us caring. But I'm afraid the experience would drive me mad. I am a creature of sterile environments. It's too late for me to change.

I can't help it. I'm a Slytherin." And I'm the worst kind of Slytherin. I'm the kind who's so stupidly in love with a Gryffindor, she can't even function. I'm the Draco from some shitty Drarry fic that the author abandoned after four chapters.

I didn’t want to fall in love. Looking at you gave me chills and kissing you made my knees weak. You made flowers grow and fill the space in my lungs which made it impossible for me to breathe. I’m trying to drench the memories and the blood that once pumped through my veins has been replaced with alcohol. My teeth has shattered from all the whiskey bottles and every morning I awake to throw up the poison I swallowed the night before as a hopeless attempt to forget the taste of your lips. I keep hearing the sound of your voice calling out my name as if it’s something I’m not allowed to forget.

I don't get why we call it a crush when it feels more like a curse.

I felt like laundry in a washing machine, when all I wanted was to be put on and become her favourite shirt.

Human experience is not nest and orderly, ready to be coded into predetermined categories. Real life is messy

I feel like if I hold things close, never share, then I never give anyone the opportunity to judge me.

If you haven't caused a scene in a psych unit, it's just because you haven't been inside long enough.

If I open up, it gets me, Dad. It gets me, and I don't know if I'm strong enough to stand it.

I hate tiny parties’, Jane also admitted, ‘they force one into constant exertion’. She had always been too introverted to make friends easily, and this grew more pronounced as she grew older. Her manner, Frank admitted, was ‘rather reserved to strangers so as to have been by some accused of haughtiness’. Jane described one heavy evening of socialising, which began at seven, as a ‘Labour’ from which the home team of female Austens were eventually ‘delivered’ at ‘past eleven’.

I don't think we are out of the woods, I don't think we ever are

I hate Hera.

I have this thing where if someone likes me, I feel like I tricked them into it. Like I can't trust it. I'll fuck it up somehow, like with Hudson.

Graceful has never been a word you immediately pinned to my physical prowess; a flailing, tumbling human version of Jenga was a tad closer to accuracy.

I love Nico

I know I exude a certain confidence, but I have a little secret: parties always make me just a little bit nervous! The anticipation. What dress I would wear. Who I would dance with. Would anyone die.

I'm a lunatic wandering around for scraps, I'm like every single miserable moron I've scorned, and pretended I didn't recognize. I'm all of them, every last ugly thing in a bad last-minute costume. I'm not different, not at all, not different from any other speck of a thing.

I know i barely talk and pretty much act like I'm not here, but I'm totally here and have a million things to say, and me being me is exactly as insane as you being you.

I'm tired of hurting from the people who leave me. I'm tired of getting comfortable with others. I tell you everything and you leave. It's like you're take what is good in me and all that is left in me is an empty shitty feeling.

I speak languages with more ease than I read or write them, she explains. It is something in the feel of the sounds. I could attempt to put them on paper but I am sure the result would be appalling.

It creates out our ecosystem a new world, whose processes and aims are utterly alien--one that works through supreme acts of mirroring, and by remaining hidden in so many ways, all without surrendering the foundations of its otherness as it becomes what it encounters.

It's not about the sex, exactly. It's the other stuff. Here's the truth: I want ths so badly, To the point where it's almost physically painful sometimes. I want Olivia's soft voiced conversations with Evan Schulmeister, where she takes five steps away from us before she even answers the phone. Just to be alone with him. And I want the palpable waves of electric crush energy that radiate off Cassie these days. I want to know what it feels like to have crushes that could conceivably one day turn into boyfriends.

I'm forever observing, trying to learn how to be an adult human being by watching others, and I'm constantly in awe of how easy some people make it look. And then I feel certain something is wrong with me for not being able to do said normal, easy, things with ease

I was convinced that she was about to tell me my card was declined, and assumed Derek wanting to talk later meant he'd soon be telling me our life was declined. Everything, everyone had reached their limits with me.

I've got troubled thoughts and the self-esteem to match. What a catch.

I want to tell them about the stones piling up in my stomach. That my thoughts are tangled and wordless.

I wish there were some kind of magic words that could bridge the gap between the person I am and the one I wish I could be. Because the whole fake it till you make it thing? It's not working for me.

I was pretty sure if I tried to sing, all I would cause was an avalanche.

I wonder if my entire life will be a series of moments in which I realize I’m an idiot long after I can actually do anything about it. Will I ever feel like I know what I’m doing?

I was so nervous about the airport, going through security and doing all that gives me some serious fucking anxiety. ... Everyone seemed so chill.

Maybe loneliness is an acquired taste, or maybe it's like plunging your hand in ice water--it hurts like hell in the beginning, and then you go numb.

Mike glares at him. Jason just smiles, like Mike won't kick his ass. Which he won't. Because Mike is a fucking pansy who loves his friends, goddamn it.

Matt Connor had already lied to fourteen people since he'd arrived at the office and it was only 11:00am.

Okay. I've got one. Do you think Pluto should still be considered an actual planet in its own right?" "Much better. And yes, I do. I had to memorize the planets when I was in third grade, and it was one of them, and I don't like having to relearn things.

Music. Numbers. Equations. They’re not like words. They … they don’t get mixed up.

No matter how much I tell myself that the fat and the stretch marks don't matter, they do. Even if Bo, for whatever reason, doesn't care, I do. Then there are days when I really give zero flying fucks, and I am totally satisfied with this body of mine. How can I be both of those people at once?

Real people, smart or otherwise, sometimes make stupid choices, and despite judgment, whether from other writers, readers, or haters, books with outwardly stupid characters making stupid choices will continue to sell, because if you dig a little deeper, you’ll find a reason for a character’s moment of idiocy; and more notably, this moment of idiocy amidst the chaos of life is real and relatable.

Of course I know what she means. To make art in fandom is to follow your passion at the risk of never being taken seriously. I've written dozens of fics-put them together and you'd have several novels-but who knows what a college admissions officer will think of that as a pastime. Where does 12,000 Tumbler followers rate in relation to a spot in the National Honor Society in their minds? Every week I get anonymous messages in my inbox telling me I should write a real book. Well, haven't I already? What makes what I do different from "real writing"? Is it that I don't use original characters? I guess that makes every Hardy Boys edition, every Star Wars book, every spinoff, sequel, fairy-tale re-telling, historical romance, comic book reboot, and the music Hamilton "not real writing". Or is it that a real book is something printed, that you can hold in your hand, not something you write on the internet? Or is "real writing" something you sell in a store, not give away for free? No, I know it's none of these things. It's merely this: "real writing" is done by serious people, whereas fanfiction is written by weirdos, teenagers, degenerates, and women.

Rock bottom had turned out to be more greasy and hairy than rocky.