The people who recorded all the stories for The Bible. Nostradamus. People that aren't going to misinterpret the thoughts I'm trying to convey to them. People who aren't going to turn my confiding words to them around on me to make me feel like a bad or pathetic person. People who are able to express what they're going through in a way that they can be understood, so as not to add to the confusion that is LIFE. People who will listen to my ideas and not say they're stupid or un-unique and who are willing to encourage instead of discourage. People that have a lot of knowledge about every day stuff like electricity, mechanics, music, window washing, religion, nature and all that good stuff. I'm always willing to learn new things. Unique people that love life and understand that not everything turns out the way we like it to, but can roll with the punches and laugh in the face of obsticles overcome. People that will inspire me to be a better person that is more understanding than I already am, that can help me to develop into the person I will one day be in my upward years. People that are going to be a friend for life, that don't cause mass amounts of drama and care enough to break down the walls I've built up. <3
ROBERT CRUMB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Say, why are Beauties prais'd and honour'd most,
The Wise Man's Passion, and the Vain Man's Toast?
Why deck'd with all that Land and Sea afford,
Why Angels call'd, and Angel-like ador'd?
Why round our Coaches crowd the white-gloved Beaux,
Why bows the Side-box from its inmost Rows?
How vain are all these Glories, all our Pains,
Unless good Sense preserve what Beauty gains:
That Men may say, when we the Front-box grace,
Behold the first in Virtue as in Face!
Oh! if to dance all Night, and dress all Day,
Charm'd the Small-pox, or chas'd old Age away;
Who would not scorn what Housewife's Cares produce,
Or who would learn one earthly Thing of Use?
To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint,
Nor could it sure be such a Sin to paint.
But since, alas! frail Beauty must decay,
Curl'd or uncurl'd, since Locks will turn to grey;
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,
And she who scorns a Man, must die a Maid,
What then remains but well our Pow'r to use,
And keep good Humour still whate'er we lose?
And trust me, dear! good Humour can prevail,
When Airs, and Flights, and Screams, and Scolding fail.
Beauties in vain their pretty Eyes may roll;
Charms strike the Sight, but Merit wins the Soul.