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I’m an introvert, and that’s a euphemism. This whole crowded scene raises my blood pressure. Secretly, I can’t wait for everyone to leave, to shed this sundress and return to my sweatpants, to escape into a blanket and a book. The party started fifteen minutes ago and I’m already socially exhausted.
Book clubs have never made sense to me. Books are where I go to escape people.
The voice of the robot in the fire system echoes in my brain—danger, danger. It’s like I have a voice like that inside myself. Only I never learned the code to turn it off.
“Have fun. Hang in there. Sorry your mom in law’s such a cuntrag.” “It’s okay. She’s not really that bad. Don’t say ‘cuntrag,’ that’s gross. Talk later.”
Really, the last thing I need in this world is to be more full of my own mind.
“Sara Eloise Taylor did not die of leukemia. She died of suicide by gunshot wound.”
There’s a difference between forgiveness and a willingness to keep loving someone despite the pain they’ve caused.
That life is constant turnover, if you are truly living. Only when you die do you stop changing, do you find stillness.
