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You just gotta tell her, man,’ i said. ‘you just gotta say, “angela, i really like you, but there’s something you need to know: when we go to my house and hook up, we’ll be watched by the twenty-four hundred eyes of twelve hundred black santas.

-John Green

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You Just Gotta Tell Her, Man,’ I

John Green

You just gotta tell her, man,’ i said. ‘you just gotta say, “angela, i really like you, but there’s something you need to know: when we go to my house and hook up, we’ll be watched by the twenty-four hundred eyes of twelve hundred black santas.

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    <p style="font-size: 1.2rem; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 10px;">"you just gotta tell her, man,’ i said. ‘you just gotta say, “angela, i really like you, but there’s something you need to know: when we go to my house and hook up, we’ll be watched by the twenty-four hundred eyes of twelve hundred black santas."</p>
    <footer style="font-size: 1rem; font-weight: bold;">— John Green</footer>
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More From John Green

When i talked to him earlier, he said he had to work tonight,” peter explained, “but that we should go ahead and draw for him.” “draw?” i asked uneasily. “oh lord. tell me it’s not pictionary night too.” peter sighed wearily. “draw for secret santas. do you even read the e-mails i send?” “secret santas? seems like we just did that,” i said. “yeah, a year ago,” said peter. “just like we do very christmas.

She didn’t understand why it was happening,” he said. “i had to tell her she would die. her social worker said i had to tell her. i had to tell her she would die, so i told her she was going to heaven. she asked if i would be there, and i said that i would not, not yet. but eventually, she said, and i promised that yes, of course, very soon. and i told her that in the meantime we had great family up there that would take care of her. and she asked me when i would be there, and i told her soon. twenty-two years ago.

White people scare the crap out of me. i have never been attacked by a black person, never been evicted by a black person, never had my security deposit ripped off by a black landlord, never had a black landlord, never been pulled over by a black cop, never been sold a lemon by a black car salesman, never seen a black car salesman, never had a black person deny me a bank loan, never had a black person bury my movie, and i've never heard a black person say, 'we're going to eliminate ten thousand jobs here - have a nice day!'

People who read me seem to be divided into four groups: twenty-five percent like me for the right reasons; twenty-five percent like me for the wrong reasons; twenty-five percent hate me for the wrong reasons; twenty-five percent hate me for the right reasons. it's that last twenty-five percent that worries me.

She still had her bad days, no question, when the black dog of depression sniffed her out and settled its crushing weight on her chest and breathed its pungent dog breath in her face. on those days she called in sick to the it shop where, most days, she untangled tangled networks for a song. on those days she pulled down the shades and ran dark for twelve or twenty-four or seventy-two hours, however long it took for the black dog to go on home to its dark master.

Kisten, please don't leave me," i begged, and his eyes opened. "i'm cold," he said, fear rising in his blue eyes. i held him tighter. "i'm holding you. it's going to be okay." "tell ivy," he said with a gasp, clenching in on himself. "tell ivy that it wasn't her fault. and tell her that at the end... you remember love. i don't think... we lose our souls... at all. i think god keeps them for us until we... come home. i love you, rachel." "i love you, too, kisten," i sobbed, and as i watched, his eyes, memorizing my face, silvered, and he died.

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Was not jesus an extremist in love? - "love your enemies, bless them that curse you, pray for them that despitefully use you."

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