Gone Girl

by Gillian Flynn

There’s something disturbing about recalling a warm memory and feeling utterly cold.

wish i could change my feeling towards the memory.

were Dunnes, and we were done,

i like puns!

Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me

on my bullshit. (But who also kind of likes my bullshit.)

Because isn’t that the point of every relationship: to be known by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. She gets me. Isn’t that the simple magic phrase?

surprisingly ugly – brazenly, beyond the scope of everyday ugly:

Sleep is like a cat: It only comes to you if you ignore it. I drank more and continued my mantra.

soldiers on the battlefield of consumerism, armed with vinyl-covered checkbooks and quilted handbags.

The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can’t anymore. I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script.

It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters.

grandiose,

mortgage

avalanche.

fielded

Ostentatious.

hospice,

intrusive.

devour

frolic

quaint.

ingrate

mincing

gallant:

vigil

malleable;

chummy

‘liaison,’

razz

Purgatory,

glib.

rendezvous

harangues

implicated

vendetta,

plateau.

hollering

dirges,

clamber

chagrined,

exonerate

marionettes

glib,

Derivative!

ensconced

vigil

despots

commemoration:

bodegas.

triumvirate.

copacetic