Whenever I see news stories about children who were killed by their parents, I think: But how could it be? They cared enough to give this kid a name, they had a moment – at least one moment – when they sifted through all the possibilities and picked one specific name for their child, decided what they would call their baby. How could you kill something you cared enough to name?
I lack formal education. So I’m left with the feeling that I’m smarter than everyone around me but that if I ever got around really smart people – people who went to universities and drank wine and spoke Latin – that they’d be bored as hell by me. It’s a lonely way to go through life.
How confusing to live in the shadow of a shadow.
Money is wasted on the rich.
I like checking days off a calendar – 151 days crossed and nothing truly horrible has happened. 152 and the world isn’t ruined. 153 and I haven’t destroyed anyone. 154 and no one really hates me. Sometimes I think I won’t ever feel safe until I can count my last days on one hand. Three more days to get through until I don’t have to worry about life anymore.
People are dumb. I’ll never get over how dumb people are.
Empathetic silence is one of the most underused weapons in the world.
Nick Dunne took my pride and my dignity and my hope and my money. He took and took from me until I no longer existed. That’s murder.
I’m not good at things like that: haircuts or oil changes or dentist visits. When I moved into my bungalow, I spent the first three months swaddled in blankets because I couldn’t deal with getting the gas turned on. It’s been turned off three times in the past few years, because sometimes I can’t quite bring myself to write a check. I have trouble maintaining.
I’m not really a nerd; I only aspire to be one.
Feeling sad means having too much time on your hands, usually. Really. I’m not a licensed therapist but usually it means too much time.
She is an incredibly intelligent idiot.
I’m just tired of people judging me because I fit into a certain mold.
Nick loved me. A six-o kind of love: He looooooved me. But he didn’t love me, me. Nick loved a girl who doesn’t exist. I was pretending, the way I often did, pretending to have a personality. I can’t help it, it’s what I’ve always done: The way some women change fashion regularly, I change personalities.
It’s all too much for her, the cruelty of human beings.
She talked to me because we had the same chemicals in our blood: shame, anger, greed. Unjustified nostalgia.
Isn’t a smile a girl’s best weapon?
Draw a picture of my soul, and it’d be a scribble with fangs.
I was already tired of talking, and I’d said very little.
I hate people who start conversations with facts – what are you supposed to do with that? Sure is hot today. Yes, it is.