I've a habit of placing a happy-face or a frowny-face on my calendar, depending on what kind of day I've had.  Often I slap a droopy circle in the box, discouraged by the things I failed to accomplish and the unpleasant encounters endured.  But then, invariably, a wise muse stops to ask me these three questio.

I hang around kids so people will assume when I act like one it's because I'm babysitting.

To love is to accept a soul entirely, not wishing that the person was otherwise, nor hoping for change, nor clinging to some ideal past. To love is to cherish the individual standing before you presently―charms, quirks, and all. To love is to give someone a piece of your heart that you will never, ever reclaim.

A closed book will lie there like a dead horse. But an open book will kick, buck, and bolt through perceived adventures like a wild and free stallion. So hold on.

Love is donating a chunk of your life to patch up holes in the life of another.

One bad turn does not excuse another.