Date A Girl Who Writes

DATE A GIRL WHO WRITES

This is a reblog, but I can't find who the author is. So to the author out there for only God knows who, thank you to have made such post.
Moreover, I think it would be very amazing if I could have such girlfriend like mentioned in the post below :P

*
Date a girl who writes because she will be able to recall in detail the dialog between you two, and while it gets you in trouble, it’s endearing and sweet at the same time that she remembers. This also forces you to choose your words carefully and you will become an expert in diction.
Date a girl who writes because she understands the complexities of characters, and knows you are more than your successes, failures, winnings, or losses. She loves all the layers of you, all the deep parts and even the shallow. When you are acting like the villain, she will see the goodness in you. When you are the hero, she’ll still secretly admire your flaws. All the depths of you become her big adventure.

Date a girl who writes

The 3rd MUN, The 1st Acievement (Finally)

The Most Outstanding Delegate of ASEAN Committee in Diponegoro Model United Nations 2013,
as Delegate of Philippines

(fyi, The Most Outstanding Delegate means the 2nd Best Delegate. The 1st one is awarded to be The Best Delegate)

As We Grow Older, We Must Be Used To Death

Reblogged from: thoughtcatalog
Original Author: Nayia Moysidis
Original Title: A Friend Died, and I had Not Idea

I found out from her mother. From her mother’s email. The one requesting photographs of our time together one summer long ago in London. She asked if I had memories I’d be willing to share. She said she’d be grateful. At first, I thought she was just organizing her daughter’s photos or making her daughter a scrapbook or surprising her daughter with images that had somehow been deleted from her daughter’s hard drive. All these thoughts to avoid the one that I feared above the rest.

But on her daughter’s Facebook page, I found my answer. I miss you more every day, her cousin wrote. I felt nauseous but still. Shocked and confused and ashamed and regretful, but still.

And then I found myself crying. Tears that weren’t just about her. Crying from shame for not knowing. Not just because I’d discovered such intimate news in such a public place. Not just because I immediately regretted not spending more time with her. Not just because my regret felt so futile and empty and foolish and cliche, that I was missing someone only after she was gone. Not just because I knew that her passing wouldn’t be enough to make me reach out to others. Not just because I felt