"In a typical college romance novel, this was the moment I would've been waiting for. The validation of all my shame and suffering at the hands of other men: a beautiful boy loved me. What had been done to my body didn't ruin me for Mr. Right. Zippity-fucking-doo-dah."
Isn't that the truth. Proof that you aren't actually ruined. How nice it is to think that a part of you isn't actually dead thanks to the love of a good man. Is it better to read something that you wish could be true, or something that actually is?
I have so many thoughts right now. I can't wait to finish this book so maybe I can begin to process them all..