twenty-four, eighty eight

Hannah, 24, 01241988, central northwestern illinois, barista, encourager, funny, and all that jazz. I love Jesus and green ice tea. It would be awesome to have fabulous hair for five years.

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from Good Will Hunting

  • Sean (with a coy smile on his face): My wife used to fart in her sleep. One night it was so loud it woke the dog up! She woke up and asked, "Was that you?" I said "Yeah." I didn't have the heart to tell her.
  • Will (almost ready to pass out laughing): She woke herself up!
  • (...Will and Sean are laughing hysterically, almost crying, after a few moments Sean continues)
  • Sean: My wife has been dead two years, Will, and that's the stuff I remember. It's wonderful stuff, you know? The little things like that---those are the things I miss the most. Little idiosyncrasies that only I knew about. That's what made her my wife. And she had the goods on me too. She knew all my little peccadilloes. People call these things imperfections, but they're not. It's the good stuff. And we get to chose who we're going to let into our weird little worlds. You're not perfect sport. And let me save you the suspense, this girl you met isn't perfect either. The question is, whether or not you're perfect for each other. That's the whole deal---that's what intimacy is all about.
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But to love at is is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to be sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one—-not even to a pet. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safely in the casket or the coffin of your selfishness. But, in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, unredeemable.