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There were only two warm spots in Maxine’s cold-blooded heart, and one was reserved for her sister. The other spot was for snakes, which were cool as shit.
Or had he—and this thought was even more apocalyptic—secretly craved that feeling of devastation, with all the addictive impulse of a cat discovering the existence of cheese?
Maxine: sorry. I was licking my wounds. Tarrah: don’t be sorry. I get it. I pour alcohol on mine; it’s sterile.
Gold was meant to be hoarded in the form of books or donated to educational institutions, not spent on decor by people who used the word decor.
Least of all the stuck-up know-it-all who was in the process of rolling up his sleeves to reveal his forearms, which, as everyone knew, was one of the sluttiest things a masculine-presenting person could do.
Who would patiently stick around even on days when she hadn’t slept well and her ADHD was especially itchy in her brain, making her more impulsive and emotional?
(I smell a rat, Orange Cat would meow, glaring at Maxine, because unlike dogs, cats would never work with the cops and could ID a dirty, rotten squeaker like nobody’s business.)
