Quotes About Communication

But she's not, and I am left to wonder on my own: How does this work, the getting to know a new guy without revealing too much desperation for his undivided attention?

That's what I like about sports. No matter if everyone playing the game speaks completely different languages, on the field, or the court, wherever they are playing, the language of moves and passes and scores is all the same. Universal.

Males are the most incomprehensible species.

What's a slut? I ask him. A girl who puts out too easily. Puts out what? I imagine Greer putting out dinner and don't understand what Iwan wouldn't like about that. Puts out, you know... His face, already beet red from our run, turns a darker scarlet. Sex. I wonder where Greer puts the sex out.

Drosophila," I said, remembering the word. "What?" Lily asked. "Why do girls always fall for guys with the at ention span of drosophila?" "What?" "Fruit flies. Guys with the attention span of fruit flies." "Because they're hot?" "This," I told her, "is not the time for being truthful.

One of the failures of cellular communication is that tiredness often comes across as sadness.

Maybe, I thought, it's not distance that's the problem, but how you handle it. - Dash

I felt especially grateful now having the red Moleskine to confide in. Just knowing a Snarl was on the other side to read it—to possibly care—inspired my pen to move quickly in answer to his question.

Can we try to be wise with each other for a very long time?

She murmured, in that particular Nancy way of hers that grates most when my inner bitch is aching to be let loose, 'Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.' My eyes popped open to see her lemon face standing over me. 'SOMEONE,' I hissed, 'HASN'T EVEN WOKEN UP YET. GOD, WHAT IS YOUR ANEURYSM? CAN'T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE?

But she looks at me with this total incomprehension, like she's watching footage of the world being blown up, and I'm the little blurb on the corner of the screen saying what the weather is like outside.

My brother, Langston, said, "Lily, you don't understand because you've never been in love. If you had a boyfriend, you'd understand." Langston has a new boyfriend and all I understand from that is a sorry state of co-dependence.

She was laughing at something Dov was saying to her, but she was looking at me, like he was the distraction and I was the conversation.

Because I hadn't known that I knew these things. Just having a notebook to write them in, and having someone to write them to, made them all rise to the surface.

One of the failures of cellular communication is that tiredness often comes across as sadness. But I appreciate your concern.

When I was old enough to read and write, my parents gave me an eraser board that I kept in my room at all times. The idea was that when frustrated, I, Lily, should write down words on the board to express my feelings instead of letting she-devil Shrilly express them through shrieking. It was supposed to be a therapeutic tool.

My hands were starting to shake a little. Because I hadn't known that I knew these things. Just having a notebook to write them in, and having someone to write them to, made them all rise to the surface.

The whole thing was silly," I said. "Please tell her there's no need to apologize. We set ourselves up for this. I was never going to be the guy in her head. And she was never going to be the girl in mine. And that's okay. Seriously.

That's a nice quote," Langston said. "Underline it and fold down the page for me, will you?" I did as instructed.

I guess I'm nervous to be meeting you," Lily said at long last, eyes still closed. "Likewise," I assured her. "I find I very rarely live up to my words. And since you know me primarily through my words, there are oh so many ways I can disappoint.

Ouch. Cursing—not so dashing.

I decided to give myself a Christmas present this year. I decided to spend the day only speaking to animals (real and stuffed), select humans as necessary so long as they weren't my parents or Langston, and a Snarl in a red Moleskine notebook—if he returned it to me.

You don't feel like a stranger to me.   I wanted to ask her, What does a stranger feel like? Not to be snarky or sarcastic. Because I really wanted to know if there was a difference, if there was a way to become truly knowable, if there wasn't always something keeping you a stranger, even to the people you weren't strange to at all. I

If Caroline was here, she'd give me her Patience, grasshopper speech. But she's not and I am left to wonder on my own: How does this work, the getting to know a new guy without revealing too much desperation for his undivided attention?