Quotes About Obsession

I could survive for months, years, on a crush.

Lara Jean, why do you have to remember every little thing? It's not healthy.

I could survive for months, years, on a crush. It was like food. It could sustain me.

The old pull, the tide drawing me back in. I kept getting caught in this current—first love, I mean. First love kept making me come back to this, to him. He still took my breath away, just being near him. I had been lying to myself the night before, thinking I was free, thinking I had let him go. It didn't matter what he said or did, I'd never let him go. I

You're in love with love

He was too pretty, too smooth. Not my type of boy at all. But after he kissed me, he was all I could think about for months after.

What are you thinking about so hard? Are you still stressing over your sex tape?" "It's not a sex tape if you're not having sex in it!" "Calm down, Lara Jean. I'm sure Peter's grandstanding did the trick and people will leave it alone. They'll be on to the next thing." "I hope you're right," I say. "Trust me, there'll be someone or something new to obsess over by next week.

The old pull, the tide drawing me back in. I kept getting caught in this current—first love, I mean. First love kept making me come back to this, to him. He still took my breath away, just being near him. I had been lying to myself the night before, thinking I was free, thinking I had let him go. It didn't matter what he said or did, I'd never let him go.

Det är den sortens kärlek som inte vet bättre och som inte vill veta bättre, den kärlek som gör en snurrig, knäpp och galen. Den sortens kärlek upplever man bara en gång.

For someone who's over Genevieve, he sure does talk about her a lot. Though it's not just him. I was thinking about her too. Even when she's not here, she's here. That girl has some kind of reach.

She has no taste left to her and this makes it easier for me. The color of her where she is inside is enough to make me kill her.

SOME PEOPLE LIKE TO NIBBLE ON THE INSIDES OF THEIR OWN CHEEKS. IV'E SEEN AN OTHERWISE LOVELY GIRL CONTORT HER FACE TO REACH A FAVORITE SPOT. THERE ARE BIT LINES WHERE REPEATED NIPS HAVE BUILT RIDGES OF SCAR TISSUE.

Zu viele Gedanken machen alles kaputt - das Essen und die Liebe.

would give it up for her, everything, the hours alone, the radiant book, the postage stamp in my likeness, but only if she would consent to lie quietly with me until she is eighteen. If she would lie quietly with me, if I could bury my face in her hair, yes, then yes, uncle.

The only love that feels like love is the doomed kind. (Fun fact.)

It's not knowing that drives you mad. It's imaging things that you wish you couldn't think up all by yourself.

But Wishing is addictive.

I've spent as much as 30 grand on a watch but it's not about flaunting my wealth. I don't have many extravagances but watches are my biggest one. I must have 30 of them now. I've been collecting since the age of nine, when I won a black TAG in a karting event.

Obsessive-compulsive disorder has at least a hundred different manifestations in both humans and vampires. Shane sorts. Regina counts. Spencer cleans. Noah watches where and how he walks, aligning his feet with the pattern of the carpet or grains of hardwood. Monroe and I share an obsession with words, rearranging the letters on signs or parsing definitions (he's learned to do it all in his head, while I often blurt out a grammatical correction in a rude and embarrassing way).

Is it possible to be overzealous, to destroy that which you hope to save-so that nothing is left but emptiness.

Too many younger artists, critics, and curators are fetishizing the sixties, transforming the period into a deformed cult, a fantasy religion, a hip brand, and a crippling disease.

My nominee for Best Picture of the year - maybe the best picture ever, because it's essentially made up of and is an ecstatic love letter to all other movies - is Christian Marclay's endlessly enticing must-see masterpiece 'The Clock.'

If I closed my eyes, I could almost count those soft hairs on the back of her neck. One day I'd even leaned forward, pretending to drop my pencil, and inhaled her until the top of my head started to steam. A scent of butterscotch wafted off of her, and it was all I could do not to plunge my face into her shag.

Being a junkie, when you broke it down, was nothing more than a crazed day job.