Luna

Just curious how many of us there are.

I have fluctuating moments where I feel comfortable with my weight, then moments where I can't stand the look of my stomach.

I'm trying to study ahead for organic chem, and this is tripping me up. What is the difference between a conjugated and unconjugated system?

It's not a big request; I just got an invite from him to add him on snapchat. Silly, I know.

He's an ex of mine, I haven't spoken to him since January. He was kind of a major jerk, and even went to far as to remove me on Facebook.

I know it's just snapchat, and this may be petty, but should I accept? I have no feelings for him. It couldn't hurt?

I'm solving for X:

-log(X)=3.82

I think I have to use e, right? Please and thanks! :)

...Have them apologize for the emotional distance, or thank you for you support?

Thank you guys :)

"Sleeping Beauty"

They told us the story

Of a princess

Who slept nearly all her life away

Just waiting for her prince.

Men would come, as steady as rain,

Testing their luck

With a kiss.

I don’t remember much of the ending, but I do

Remember wondering what it must be like,

To endure every failed attempt.

I like to believe that she was counting.

I’d imagine she tasted like warm skin and deep dreams

And soft anticipation

As Number Six-Thousand and Four would bend down and offer her

The world

Through a kiss.

She was unconscious, but I like to believe she held her breath as she hoped

For the lightening to strike

Right before

He left.

I know it is only a story. And yet

I admire that quiet hope. I like to believe

In a love that is worth waiting through

Six-Thousand and Five empty promises.

You know, the kind that could bring you

To life.

Hey there! So recently I entered a story contest; they give you a prompt and 24 hours to write. Let me know what you think, thanks!

Let me tell you a story.

Do you see that pair on the hill, there? You should. There are only two of them. There’s a boy, and a girl, and of course, me. Watching.

I always watch. It’s the best part of the job.

Take a look. They’re beneath the apple tree, swaddled in sweaters and conjuring words. He paints her a story with those words of his, a grin, and palms in the air like a faith healer.

She is intent, leaning forward, taken. Around them, autumn dazzles. The air is crisp like the apples and the maple leaves crunch. The world is, quite literally, golden.

Autumn is such a romantic season.

It’s awful, really.

Now, before I tell you what I can see, it’s best to explain my job.

I haven’t even introduced myself yet. How rude.

I am Love, though I am hardly lovely. There are many personifications of me, the most dreadful of which being the ridiculous depictions of a fat baby, swaddled in a diaper and aiming arrows. My line of work is hardly infantile.

I’m sure you must be wondering, Love? You’re a person?

No. Don’t be foolish.

Here is a quick fact about me: I am everywhere. I am the butterflies in your abdomen, I am the glow of a woman expecting her child, I am that moment of joy when you receive a text message from someone special.

Now, back to business.

Beneath the apple trees, in the center of autumn, this is what I see:

A girl and a boy. They’re not in a romantic relationship, yet here I am. The boy loves her dearly, but not in the way that elicits those awful radio jingles that preach of me. She is his dearest friend, and I am present whenever he looks into her wide, inviting eyes. Does he love her? Yes. Is he in love with her? No. Maybe. A little. Not enough to leave his fiancée, he thinks.

The girl: She is smitten with me. I can hardly catch a break; I fog her dreams, cloud her eyes, keep her awake at night. I think it is so curious how you people have agreed on the phrase, “falling in love”. One does not simply fall into me; I force myself upon you. I am never accidental.

Here is more information about me: I make mistakes.

Now, you might ask, You make her fall in love with him, but don’t make him return the love? How is that fair?

I am hardly fair.

Back to the pair.

The sun begins to set and the girl lowers her eyelids. She knows it’s time for them to go; he has his fiancée to return to. Just once, she thinks, I would like to have him for the night. We would talk and eat these apples and walk under the stars. I’d slip off my shoes and he’d loosen his tie. We would be so surprised when the sun begins to rise, at how quickly the time could fly. We’ll slowly become nocturnal, I’d joke, and you’d grin that grin and tell me more stories, all of your words, and I would listen until I heard them all, until there was nothing left to say, and I would hold you like a secret for the rest of the day.

Instead, she does not speak of me.

He gazes toward the falling sun and suggests they leave. She agrees. I can feel myself churning quietly inside her.

The autumn air grows colder as they collect their apples. The silence of this task is broken like ice when she drops a piece of the fruit, and he bends down to retrieve it.

The boy stands and offers her apple back to her. It is temptingly, beautifully, red.

Now, I am no literature buff, but I do love symbolism when I see it.

Speak, girl.

Instead, she holds the apple, holds her tongue.

The girl thanks her friend and they begin the descent down the hill, away from the tree of apples and towards the town. Soon they resume their talking. His words are quick enough to create smoke on the frosty air. Her cheeks are flushed, but not from the chill.

I am Love, though I am hardly lovely. I am everywhere.

I am in the way she looks at him as they enter the town; I am in the way his fiancée’s arm snakes around his waist when he returns to her. I am in the hours the girl will stay awake tonight, picturing the stolen night she imaged under the apple trees, the longing she feels in the core of her heart.

I am in the details.

Here is one the girl has missed: The boy would’ve loved that night. I would know.

Here is the problem with you people. You love me; you praise me throughout your history with songs and paintings depicting the happiness I cast upon you; yet you fear me as well. I am inside every one of you, yet you are not brave enough to speak of me to the people I steer you towards. Death could take you any day and you choose to hold me inside of you and risk me dying, with you, unspoken, unfelt. Unreturned.

I am the voice in your chest that you silence with fear. I am her heart, telling her to call him and tell him of me. I am in him as well, keeping him awake tonight, wondering if he should do the same.

I am Love, and I am as tempting as an apple.

I’m nothing if not acted upon.

Go on. Take a bite.

Hey there! So recently I entered a story contest; they give you a prompt and 24 hours to write. Let me know what you think, thanks!

Let me tell you a story.

Do you see that pair on the hill, there? You should. There are only two of them. There’s a boy, and a girl, and of course, me. Watching.

I always watch. It’s the best part of the job.

Take a look. They’re beneath the apple tree, swaddled in sweaters and conjuring words. He paints her a story with those words of his, a grin, and palms in the air like a faith healer.

She is intent, leaning forward, taken. Around them, autumn dazzles. The air is crisp like the apples and the maple leaves crunch. The world is, quite literally, golden.

Autumn is such a romantic season.

It’s awful, really.

Now, before I tell you what I can see, it’s best to explain my job.

I haven’t even introduced myself yet. How rude.

I am Love, though I am hardly lovely. There are many personifications of me, the most dreadful of which being the ridiculous depictions of a fat baby, swaddled in a diaper and aiming arrows. My line of work is hardly infantile.

I’m sure you must be wondering, Love? You’re a person?

No. Don’t be foolish.

Here is a quick fact about me: I am everywhere. I am the butterflies in your abdomen, I am the glow of a woman expecting her child, I am that moment of joy when you receive a text message from someone special.

Now, back to business.

Beneath the apple trees, in the center of autumn, this is what I see:

A girl and a boy. They’re not in a romantic relationship, yet here I am. The boy loves her dearly, but not in the way that elicits those awful radio jingles that preach of me. She is his dearest friend, and I am present whenever he looks into her wide, inviting eyes. Does he love her? Yes. Is he in love with her? No. Maybe. A little. Not enough to leave his fiancée, he thinks.

The girl: She is smitten with me. I can hardly catch a break; I fog her dreams, cloud her eyes, keep her awake at night. I think it is so curious how you people have agreed on the phrase, “falling in love”. One does not simply fall into me; I force myself upon you. I am never accidental.

Here is more information about me: I make mistakes.

Now, you might ask, You make her fall in love with him, but don’t make him return the love? How is that fair?

I am hardly fair.

Back to the pair.

The sun begins to set and the girl lowers her eyelids. She knows it’s time for them to go; he has his fiancée to return to. Just once, she thinks, I would like to have him for the night. We would talk and eat these apples and walk under the stars. I’d slip off my shoes and he’d loosen his tie. We would be so surprised when the sun begins to rise, at how quickly the time could fly. We’ll slowly become nocturnal, I’d joke, and you’d grin that grin and tell me more stories, all of your words, and I would listen until I heard them all, until there was nothing left to say, and I would hold you like a secret for the rest of the day.

Instead, she does not speak of me.

He gazes toward the falling sun and suggests they leave. She agrees. I can feel myself churning quietly inside her.

The autumn air grows colder as they collect their apples. The silence of this task is broken like ice when she drops a piece of the fruit, and he bends down to retrieve it.

The boy stands and offers her apple back to her. It is temptingly, beautifully, red.

Now, I am no literature buff, but I do love symbolism when I see it.

Speak, girl.

Instead, she holds the apple, holds her tongue.

The girl thanks her friend and they begin the descent down the hill, away from the tree of apples and towards the town. Soon they resume their talking. His words are quick enough to create smoke on the frosty air. Her cheeks are flushed, but not from the chill.

I am Love, though I am hardly lovely. I am everywhere.

I am in the way she looks at him as they enter the town; I am in the way his fiancée’s arm snakes around his waist when he returns to her. I am in the hours the girl will stay awake tonight, picturing the stolen night she imaged under the apple trees, the longing she feels in the core of her heart.

I am in the details.

Here is one the girl has missed: The boy would’ve loved that night. I would know.

Here is the problem with you people. You love me; you praise me throughout your history with songs and paintings depicting the happiness I cast upon you; yet you fear me as well. I am inside every one of you, yet you are not brave enough to speak of me to the people I steer you towards. Death could take you any day and you choose to hold me inside of you and risk me dying, with you, unspoken, unfelt. Unreturned.

I am the voice in your chest that you silence with fear. I am her heart, telling her to call him and tell him of me. I am in him as well, keeping him awake tonight, wondering if he should do the same.

I am Love, and I am as tempting as an apple.

I’m nothing if not acted upon.

Go on. Take a bite.

Hey there! So recently I entered a story contest; they give you a prompt and 24 hours to write. Let me know what you think, thanks!

Let me tell you a story.

Do you see that pair on the hill, there? You should. There are only two of them. There’s a boy, and a girl, and of course, me. Watching.

I always watch. It’s the best part of the job.

Take a look. They’re beneath the apple tree, swaddled in sweaters and conjuring words. He paints her a story with those words of his, a grin, and palms in the air like a faith healer.

She is intent, leaning forward, taken. Around them, autumn dazzles. The air is crisp like the apples and the maple leaves crunch. The world is, quite literally, golden.

Autumn is such a romantic season.

It’s awful, really.

Now, before I tell you what I can see, it’s best to explain my job.

I haven’t even introduced myself yet. How rude.

I am Love, though I am hardly lovely. There are many personifications of me, the most dreadful of which being the ridiculous depictions of a fat baby, swaddled in a diaper and aiming arrows. My line of work is hardly infantile.

I’m sure you must be wondering, Love? You’re a person?

No. Don’t be foolish.

Here is a quick fact about me: I am everywhere. I am the butterflies in your abdomen, I am the glow of a woman expecting her child, I am that moment of joy when you receive a text message from someone special.

Now, back to business.

Beneath the apple trees, in the center of autumn, this is what I see:

A girl and a boy. They’re not in a romantic relationship, yet here I am. The boy loves her dearly, but not in the way that elicits those awful radio jingles that preach of me. She is his dearest friend, and I am present whenever he looks into her wide, inviting eyes. Does he love her? Yes. Is he in love with her? No. Maybe. A little. Not enough to leave his fiancée, he thinks.

The girl: She is smitten with me. I can hardly catch a break; I fog her dreams, cloud her eyes, keep her awake at night. I think it is so curious how you people have agreed on the phrase, “falling in love”. One does not simply fall into me; I force myself upon you. I am never accidental.

Here is more information about me: I make mistakes.

Now, you might ask, You make her fall in love with him, but don’t make him return the love? How is that fair?

I am hardly fair.

Back to the pair.

The sun begins to set and the girl lowers her eyelids. She knows it’s time for them to go; he has his fiancée to return to. Just once, she thinks, I would like to have him for the night. We would talk and eat these apples and walk under the stars. I’d slip off my shoes and he’d loosen his tie. We would be so surprised when the sun begins to rise, at how quickly the time could fly. We’ll slowly become nocturnal, I’d joke, and you’d grin that grin and tell me more stories, all of your words, and I would listen until I heard them all, until there was nothing left to say, and I would hold you like a secret for the rest of the day.

Instead, she does not speak of me.

He gazes toward the falling sun and suggests they leave. She agrees. I can feel myself churning quietly inside her.

The autumn air grows colder as they collect their apples. The silence of this task is broken like ice when she drops a piece of the fruit, and he bends down to retrieve it.

The boy stands and offers her apple back to her. It is temptingly, beautifully, red.

Now, I am no literature buff, but I do love symbolism when I see it.

Speak, girl.

Instead, she holds the apple, holds her tongue.

The girl thanks her friend and they begin the descent down the hill, away from the tree of apples and towards the town. Soon they resume their talking. His words are quick enough to create smoke on the frosty air. Her cheeks are flushed, but not from the chill.

I am Love, though I am hardly lovely. I am everywhere.

I am in the way she looks at him as they enter the town; I am in the way his fiancée’s arm snakes around his waist when he returns to her. I am in the hours the girl will stay awake tonight, picturing the stolen night she imaged under the apple trees, the longing she feels in the core of her heart.

I am in the details.

Here is one the girl has missed: The boy would’ve loved that night. I would know.

Here is the problem with you people. You love me; you praise me throughout your history with songs and paintings depicting the happiness I cast upon you; yet you fear me as well. I am inside every one of you, yet you are not brave enough to speak of me to the people I steer you towards. Death could take you any day and you choose to hold me inside of you and risk me dying, with you, unspoken, unfelt. Unreturned.

I am the voice in your chest that you silence with fear. I am her heart, telling her to call him and tell him of me. I am in him as well, keeping him awake tonight, wondering if he should do the same.

I am Love, and I am as tempting as an apple.

I’m nothing if not acted upon.

Go on. Take a bite.

It's mostly yellow, with some white horizontal stripes. It's flowy and long enough to cover up a belt.

Silly question, but answers are appreciated :)

Or both?

Hi there,

I've been all over the internet and haven't received a straight answer. I'm 5'5, 18, and 125lbs. I've been counting calories (1200 per day) and doing cardio for an hour per day, about 6 times per week. Most days I feel pretty good about my weight, especially after a day of healthy eating, but whenever I cave and have something chocolatey I just feel so fat and disgusting. I loathe myself a little, and resolve to work even harder the next day.

I know that no matter my weight, it's unhealthy to feel this way, and I suppose I'm just looking for a straight, unbiased answer. (Be brutal, please).

Thank you.