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  1. Whysitgottabeme Whysitgottabeme
    posted a quote
    March 7, 2018 8:19am UTC
    ~It's my Birthday.~
    ~March 7, 2018~

  2. TheCovertComic TheCovertComic
    posted a quote
    June 25, 2017 9:43am UTC
    Toilet paper, and every story, has two sides.

  3. seafoam* seafoam*
    posted a quote
    December 12, 2016 11:11pm UTC
    Joan of Arc came back as a little girl in Japan, and her father told her to stop listening to her imaginary friends.
    Elvis was born again in a small village in Sudan, he died hungry, age 9, never knowing what a guitar was.
    Michelangelo was drafted into the military at age 18 in Korea, he painted his face black with shoe polish and learned to kill.
    Jackson Pollock got told to stop making a mess, somewhere in Russia.
    Hemingway, to this day, writes DVD instruction manuals somewhere in China. He’s an old man on a factory line. You wouldn’t recognize him.
    Gandhi was born to a wealthy stockbroker in New York. He never forgave the world after his father threw himself from his office window, on the 21st floor.
    And everyone, somewhere, is someone, if we only give them a chance.

  4. Caitlyn* Caitlyn*
    posted a quote
    August 19, 2016 12:08pm UTC
    Check out my new blog.....
    (Leave a comment, follow my insta, send me a message)

  5. seafoam* seafoam*
    posted a quote
    May 26, 2016 1:00pm UTC

    But there’s a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother’s story, because hers is where yours begin.
    —Mitch Albom

  6. justkiddiing justkiddiing
    posted a quote
    May 5, 2016 2:53pm UTC
    I always write when they have left
    because then the story is over
    because then I can tell it
    so you got lucky
    I got the diseases you cursed to me
    you got the misery you wanted to create
    and I have no foul taste in my mouth
    when I call your name
    and named someone else my treasure
    things turned around
    and we never hated each other
    but it was no love

  7. Valery * Valery *
    posted a quote
    January 22, 2016 12:47am UTC
    "In His Arms" by xxhellolovelyxx is by far the best story I've read on witty along with "The Guy On Omegle" or something like that by I forgot who (sorry) but my point being these stories give me life

  8. Valery * Valery *
    posted a quote
    January 20, 2016 11:46pm UTC
    back on witty after a couple of years, if any of you write stories on here please let
    me know i love the writer on here 💗

  9. «uzilla09»* «uzilla09»*
    posted a quote
    January 12, 2016 9:55pm UTC
    wari sa kanyang silay
    kita na walang malay
    akin na mariyam
    ng SIYA nariyan;

  10. dontsellyourselfshort dontsellyourselfshort
    posted a quote
    January 11, 2016 8:22pm UTC
    I have to believe that there are moments of uncorruptable beauty upon this earth.

  11. dontsellyourselfshort dontsellyourselfshort
    posted a quote
    January 11, 2016 8:16pm UTC
    I just want a hand to hold and two ears that will listen and a mouth that will tell me stories.

  12. Raxin Raxin
    posted a quote
    December 11, 2015 10:57pm UTC
    My name is:
    Your Grandmother
    I'd love to tell you about:
    Your Family
    quote and format by Raxin

  13. Raxin Raxin
    posted a quote
    December 11, 2015 10:56pm UTC
    My name is:
    Your Grandfather
    I'd love to tell you about:
    My Life
    quote and format by Raxin

  14. goawayanthony* goawayanthony*
    posted a quote
    July 23, 2015 3:06pm UTC
    Check out my books!
    I've had some requests
    so here you go. Pretty much all the stories I'm working on at the moment are here:

  15. thgcfmj123 thgcfmj123
    posted a quote
    June 24, 2015 7:16am UTC
    When your story has almost a 1000 reads on wattpad and almost a hundred voted :)

  16. *nerium* *nerium*
    posted a quote
    April 8, 2015 7:27pm UTC
    I would strip my skin off for you. I would let you see me, whole, with no inhibitions. I would strip my skin off for you, leaving nothing left but flesh and bone, and the tendons that flex beneath my muscle. I would let you view me in this state, entirely bare and vulnerable, and I will do it because you have simply asked. I would endure the stares and the ridicule, the sneering and the harassment, because I am doing this for you; because you asked me to. The difference is, as I streak blood throughout the house and my skin slowly dries within the closet, you will do nothing. You will not reassure me and you will hardly look my way. I have felt that recently, you have wanted to see me as a half. You no longer wish to see me as I am, but instead hidden in plain sight, shrouded in my skin. I have ground embarrassed and ashamed, but I can no longer go back; I no longer fit within my skin. I wish I could grow it back, to hide again. Perhaps then you will start loving me.

  17. *nerium* *nerium*
    posted a quote
    March 18, 2015 9:47pm UTC
    I like his hands. I like the lack of warmth, how they are so cold and dry against my heated palm. I like how, gradually, they begin to warm from the radiation of my own nervous hands, and how he doesn't let go when my palm begins to slip with sweat. I like the sublte way in which he grasps my wrist, and how he will place my hand into his jacket pocket, so we can bask in the comfort of a secret. I like his hands, the roughness of his palm and the blue defintion of his veins, but I like them especially when they are holding mine.

  18. Crazy_Beautiful202 Crazy_Beautiful202
    posted a quote
    January 15, 2015 12:02am UTC
    How many times did I find myself on his bathroom floor cowering beneath him, feeling the hot spit land on me as he screamed? Stop crying like a baby. You're crazy. No one else would put up with you. How many times did I shudder on that floor counting my breaths, bringing myself back from the brink of suffocation during a panic attack that was triggered by one of these maniacal and regular assults? But he never hit me.
    How many hours did I remain on that bathroom floor after he had gone to bed, my eyes red with burst blood vessels? How many times did I hear the sound of his snores and realize he had fallen asleep, no more than a meter away, to the sound of me hyperventilating while still in the throes of that panic attack? How many times did I whisper aloud, "How did I get here? How did I become this girl?" How many times did I tell myself to get up, call a cab and walk out the front door? How many times did I get up and look in that mirror and fail to recognize myself? How much hate could I have for the broken girl staring back at me? But he never hit me.
    How many times did I crawl into that bed, rather than into a cab, and wake up with his arms around me, telling me that I brought it out in him? He wasn't like this. I made him like this. I needed to change the way I approached him about these things. Be less accusatory. If I just softened my approach, it would allow him to react differently. How many times did I adjust my approach before I realized the only way to avoid the abuse was not to bring it up at all? But he never hit me.
    How many emails and text messages did I find? How many parties did we attend knowing that one of the women was there? I learned quickly not to address it so that "I" wouldn't ruin a perfectly nice evening. When his family member asked me if a lipstick she had found under the couch was mine, I threw it away and said nothing more of it. Neither did she. Another humiliation taken in silence. But he never hit me.
    How many times did he tell me he was going to sleep, out for dinner with a client, couldn't hear his phone, but actually taking out another woman? How many times did he ignore my calls and call the next morning telling me nothing had happened? It was sadistic. I could see how much he enjoyed being that powerful. How many defamatory lies did he concoct and propagate to my colleagues and friends when I walked away from him? How many times did he smear my reputation? How many times did I go back, believing every promise that he was a new man, believing every half-hearted apology? But he never hit me.
    How many times did a friend pick me up because he had kicked me out of bed in the middle of the night for questioning him about one of the women? How many times did I go back before those friends had had enough. How many times did I defend him and justify his behavior when I told a friend about what he had done? When did I stop telling altogether to avoid the shame of the insanity of the circumstances I was somehow in -- The shame of being a strong independent woman who couldn't take care of herself enough to leave a situation that was so toxic? When did I stop expecting more? But he never hit me.
    How could I explain to someone that believed it was partly my fault, even though I was embarrassed to hear those beaten woman's words spoken from my lips. No one really understood. No one knew him like I did. It was my job to protect him from the truth of what he did to me. I couldn't let them think he was a monster. I wouldn't tell anyone. I was entirely alone. But he never hit me.
    My solitude meant that I could no longer see the reflection in other people's eyes indicating what was normal. I could only see the reflection in his eyes and began to believe what he told me about myself. I began to believe his irrational explanations despite my own heart and eyes. I let him define reality. I became isolated. It became easier to cut off my support networks completely than to have to lie about everything. Than to face the humiliation of my reality. A part of me knew that once they knew the extent of what was happening, they would force me to get out for good. I knew I would always need to even in the worst of times. But he never hit me.
    I set a benchmark. The red line I wouldn't cross. The minute he hit me, I would leave. But the truth is, I know I wouldn't have left then either. I would have rationalized that in hitting me, he would realize how out of hand things were. Everything would change now. I wouldn't have left. By hurting me, he showed me he loved me. He cared enough to go that crazy. He cared so much that he was overwhelmed by anger and jealousy or sadness and simply couldn't control himself.
    When it was over, I wasn't permitted to mourn him. No one could understand how love, hate, fear and comfort could coexist simultaneously. They could not understand that in addiction to my abuser, I also lost my confidant, the person to make dinner with, the person to watch movies on a rainy sunday, the person to laugh with, the person who knew me. I lost my companion. How can you explain to someone that the abuse was only a part of who he was? How do you explain that to yourself?
    There are still days when I remember tender moments and wonder if it really was that bad. I still struggle with reconciling how he could love me to the point of tears and yet hurt me as if I was an enemy. Like a child, I'm learning to redefine the borders of normal behavior and to realign my expectations. I remind myself that acts of violence can never be acts of love.

  19. ClassyGecko ClassyGecko
    posted a quote
    January 7, 2015 8:32pm UTC
    So, I am writing a blog. Its a new thing. I dont know if ill stick with it yet but feel free to read and comment on the posts. I appreciate your thoughts and feedback. I'm warning you now though that some of it is depressing. http://escapethemadness.blog.com/

  20. ilovepuppy11 ilovepuppy11
    posted a quote
    December 21, 2014 9:13am UTC
    The legend of Blue Baby Blue concerns a story about a strange game that kids play. It causes an evil ghostly infant to appear in your arms. This urban legend is related to the myth of Bloody Mary.
    To play “Blue Baby Blue”, you have to go into the bathroom on your own, turn off the lights and lock the door. Then you stare into the mirror, hold out your arms like you are rocking a baby and repeat the words “Baby Blue, Blue Baby” 13 times without making a mistake.
    If you do it right, you will suddenly feel the weight of an invisible baby in your arms. The baby will get heavier and heavier as it grows larger and larger. You will feel it scratching your arms.
    Before it gets too heavy, you have to quickly take the invisible baby, flush it down the toilet and run out of the bathroom. If you don’t do it fast enough, a hideous woman will appear in the mirror. She will yell “Give me back my baby!” and scream loud enough to break glass. If you are still holding the baby, she will kill you.
    Some people believe the woman is Bloody Mary and she murdered her own child when she shattered a mirror and used a piece of broken glass to stab him to death.
    According to the urban legend, a group of girls found out about the blue baby story and decided to try it out. They didn’t believe it would work, so they sent their friend Laura into the bathroom on her own. She turned the lights off and closed the door behind her. Laura put out her arms and started chanting the phrase “Blue Baby, Baby Blue”.
    All of a sudden, a baby appeared in her arms and began scratching her. Laura was scared out of her wits and had no idea what to do. She wanted to drop it and run, but she was afraid of what might happen. She just stood there holding the invisible baby as it grew heavier and heavier. Suddenly, she caught sight of something horrible in the bathroom mirror and screamed in terror.
    When Laura’s friends heard her screaming, they tried to open the bathroom door, but it was locked. Finally, they managed to run to a friends’s house to get help. When they broke open the door, they found Laura lying dead on the bathroom floor. Her eyes had been scratched out. They couldn’t move her body because something large and invisible was pinning her to the ground.
    (this is not my story found it from online:))


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