Book: Jogging in stilettos

... Maybe you have too, is such a state of buzz when you, say, buy an obscenely expensive purse, knowing that your Bank loan are already at the limit. There comes a time when you just physically can't stop. When it seems that your whole existence depends on this bag, and your soul screams, relishing it. Are you willing to risk your reputation, career, ready to sit in debtor's prison, it's all about the purse. "Yes, Yes, please, just take my card, the girl, and let me out the fucking su-mon-of chuuuuuu!!!"

Vicious, the Former must by definition remain flawed at best. Then you know exactly how to behave towards them. Can with a clear conscience to hate them, unable to wish them evil, I can hope that milk is their life sooner or later turn sour and curdle - and all because you know: they are the embodiment of Vice and should get what they deserve.

If a woman likes a man, she constantly to the point and out of place - inserts his name into the conversation.

There are three kinds of crying. One is loud, with wailing bitter tears, and copious snot, crying from the category of "look what you did to me", which is executed before the guilty boyfriend, reap the bitter fruits of his cruelty and forever doomed to a relentless manifestation of care. The second quietly, with a headache and an insane facial expression, crying in the name of complacency: luxury, strictly speaking, necessary when the tear ducts remain completely dry. When you genuinely believe that they deserve the right to cry, and strongly motivated to invoke pity for myself. And finally, the third is mournful, muffled cry, something like the weeping Madonna (in the sense of the virgin Mary is I update for the sake of clarity): when the face of a cruel world flowing innocent tears of sorrow, sadly slipping on the face and easily (your image in this case is too humble and meek, to take advantage of the scarf) dripping on the monastic wimple.