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I put my life in the devil’s hands cause God doesn’t come through on this kinda thing.
If I had to sum up my life story in one word, it would be “reckless.” I’m reckless. Always have been, ever since I was a kid. Radical and impulsive. I had a hard time following rules, respecting authority figures, taking orders; it pissed me off, and still does, when people say “yes” and mean “no.” No way, Boss: for me, “yes” is “yes” and “no” is “no.” It’s all or nothing, no such thing as a middle ground. That’s why I live to the max, feel to the max, spend to the max, and earn to the max.
When did I figure out her father was a drug lord? I don’t know, and I don’t really care. Bad people don’t tell their daughters that good fortune is meant to be shared, so why should it matter what he does for a living?
How can you prove misogyny in court if the murderer says he loved her? Love is misogynist.
In your own home. Nowhere is safe. Nowhere. Being a woman means living in a state of emergency.
Every two hours and twenty-five minutes, a woman in Mexico is strangled, raped, dismembered, burned alive, mutilated, beaten to a pulp, and left with bruises and broken bones. A woman’s body, another woman. Some woman, a nameless woman. A lifeless body was found. But none of them was yours.
“Maybe that’s your mission. To gather the bones of dead women, to piece them together and tell their stories, and then to let them run free.”
my rebellion is that I want to live, and if I don’t let you go, if I don’t let you run free, this sadness will kill me.
