In fact, there are no signs, just interpretations.
Getting over someone was sort of like doing one’s laundry. You got it all done, washed away all dirt, ironed all the creases, folded everything nicely and put it in neat little stacks. And then the next week you had to do it all over again.
She absolutely loved her apartment, except when crossing the threshold after a great trip with great people and the emptiness filled every corner of her home.
He gave a long speech about how beautiful her eyes were and she felt as if she ought to apologize to his wife. Sometimes, prettiness can be a real drag.
The television news showed pictures of a screaming infant in Syria with burns all over her little body. She couldn’t stand it, so she quickly changed the channel.
The next day, she bought the expensive fair trade bananas instead of the cheaper ones to make up for it.
It seemed that all holidays were made for nuclear families and freaking happy people.
Discrimination, in her humble opinion.
The worst thing about divorced parents was having to say everything twice.
She was so sick of hearing her own voice.
After millennia of male oppression, she thought it not only her right but also her duty to be as sexist as she possibly could.
All these chatty hairdressers demanding to know all your dreams, future plans and family affairs after only thirty minutes of acquaintance. “Goddamn, it’s personal!” she shouted not, but instead made polite small talk about the big stuff while they trimmed her split ends.