I'm not a racist, that's what so insane about this. And yet it is said. It comes through, it fires out of me, and even now in the passion that's here as I confront myself.
Don't get me wrong - I love London, and still have an apartment there.
I am not trying to give an image of a fairytale, perfect, everything else, I am just being myself.
I am utterly in love with my son and my boyfriend and live in the most magical place on Earth. I've been in Norway for ten months now and I have loved every minute of it.
I'm a new mum who spends her days making baby food and cooking for her man. And I couldn't be happier.
I got a phone call saying we are from the News of the World, and we're exposing you and David Beckham. My heart did not beat for a minute.
I am seriously considering it.
How I Shed My Skin is, simply put, a brilliant book. While I was reading, I kept thinking two things. One, this is totally shocking. Two, it's not at all shocking, but a familiar part of my life and memory. Grimsley's narrative is straightforward and plain-spoken while at the same time achingly moving and intimately honest, and it does more to explain the South than anything I've read in a long, long time.
Socrates demonstrated long ago, that the truly free individual is free only to the extent of his own self-mastery.
So, thanks,” Vivian said. “For what?” I looked up at her, confused. “For being stupid enough to love your crazy, murdering lunatic of a sister and being such a pathetic dork that I couldn’t help but love you, too
I belong wherever I want to be.