I’m not someone who can be depended on five days a week. Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday? I don’t even get out of bed five days in a row – I often don’t remember to eat five days in a row.
Diary Amy. She was meant to be likable. Meant for someone like you to like her. She’s easy to like. I’ve never understood why that’s considered a compliment – that just anyone could like you. No matter.
January was the season for house robberies and violence. Christmas was over, and the new year just reminded you of how little your life had changed, and man, people got angry in January.
There might be a space too, for this. The feel of killing, there might be an empty spot just waiting to be filled.
The children in the woods play wild, secret games.
If you were chopping up hookers or eating runaways, you’d try to look normal.
I like rules that make sense, not rules without logic.
I always feel sad for the girl that i was, because it never occurred to me that my mother might comfort me.
That’s how screwed up you are, I thought. Your idea of adulthood still comes from picturebooks.
Feeling sad means having too much time on your hands, usually.
No.” I folded in on myself, ignoring my meal, projecting glumness. That was another of my mom’s words: glum. It meant having the blues in a way that annoyed other people. Having the blues aggressively.
I rolled my eyes and set my head in my hands, as if it was too much for me, and it almost was.
Everyone has a moment where life goes off the rails. Mine was the day Marian died. The day I picked up that knife is a tight second.
I’m not just pretty anymore, I am pretty for my age.
Winter. No one likes winter.” “It gets dark early, I like that.” “Why?” Because that means the day has ended. 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.
I’d let the words run over my brain and out my ears, like a terrified cancer patient hearing all that coded jargon and understanding nothing, except that it was very bad news.
Sometimes I think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom. I have known so many sick women all my life.
Today I like my first ladies with a little bite.
I can feel a better version of me somewhere in there – hidden behind a liver or attached to a bit of spleen within my stunted, childish body – a Libby that’s telling me to get up, do something, grow up, move on.
I never worked holidays, because holiday hand jobs are sad for everyone.