Kayley Loring

P.S. Don’t have sex with your psychotherapist.

xx Kayley Loring

I’ve had my face so far up my co-star’s vagina that I didn’t realize my head was up my own ass again.

That sounds weird.

But it makes a lot of sense in my heart.

MILES: Aww. Does somebody still have sand in his crack?

Would the question be: Is my subconscious messing with me by creating a fake Dylan Brodie email address while I’m sleeping and then scheduling it to send messages while I’m awake?

I’m an excellent therapist—probably.

Her shoes are open-toe and her toe nail polish is shiny red and I want to give her a fucking foot massage while singing to her.

I just need to be able to see her face without her knowing I’m looking at her because she won’t date me. That sounds weird, but it’s actually respecting her boundaries.

“It is.” This kid has no sense of humor. None. “So can you?”

“Maybe if I take her to the mall for a few hours this weekend, you could just come over and take whatever you think we don’t need. Leave the door unlocked when you leave. We’ll pretend we were robbed.” He shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

There’s a boy with brown hair and brown eyes that are so pretty he almost looks like a girl.