Brace yourself.
You're a human; this is going to hurt. You have to get out of the crib. You have to get rid of your pacifier. If that means bumming it, baby, and burning your possessions, so be it. You're going to survive. But
brace yourself.
He said it's better to be free and shiver than unfree and warm; maybe, this summer, you'll finish
The Dharma Bums -
not to be tested but to feel your life.
Brace yourself. Throw yourself among strangers; no one will force you to smile. No one out there knows how beautiful you were as a
baby, how sad you are, really, now, as a woman; there's nothing out there to live up to, only the name you give them. If any;
brace yourself.
You might see what you never saw before. You never will again, and this is what frightens you. You have always thought that
beauty equalled
novelty, and I see you getting addicted to the changes in scenery, so
brace yourself. You could get addicted to
the taste of your heart. You could really love the feeling of the
wind up your skirt, the rain on your windows. You could get hooked on
the murmur of the television, the din of music, the rattle of your PC.
Brace yourself. You could get hooked on
movement pain desolation hurt stubble-covered American boys who can't love you perfectly, or at all.
You could get addicted to your fantasies.
Brace yourself. If you take a
Nytol,
you won't trust your dreams in the morning.