Here’s an older, newly-edited snippet of writing I’d like to turn into something. If I had a nickel for every story starter or snippet I had and no full story to match, I’d be a billionaire. – D.R Breshears
It’s not as if she didn’t care about other things, it’s just, she grew infatuated.
She knew it was never glorious becoming infatuated with something. Well, it was never glorious becoming infatuated with something negative.
She, overall, however, became infatuated with practically everything she encountered: food, (flipside working out), boys (flipside girls), drugs (flipside addiction help groups), loved ones (flipside hated ones).
Most recently, and most obviously to anyone who knew her, she was infatuated with death (no flipside).
Before, however, she was infatuated with love. Infatuated with infatuation, you could say.
She was loved by many and loved many as well, in a very short period of time. She fell in love the most when she was 24, and she never really looked back and thought of any other love.
In her more recent years, she oftentimes felt love sad. You know, when you are deeply in love and there are so many problems yet none at all, you can easily make mountain sized problems out of molehills.
Her relationship was fine, but she was constantly not fine with something about her relationship.
She wanted more. She wanted less. She needed him. She needed him to change. She needed to change.
You’ve felt this way, right? No? Well, have you been in love? Because it’s really important before you go on reading this book that you’ve been in love, otherwise you really won’t care about the rest. (But no, this really isn’t exactly a love story.)