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I thought I was a good person. But like love, goodness is never really unconditional.
This idea that people need to have another to complete them has always bewildered me. I have an excellent collection of vibrators. I’m good.
She can emanate kindness in a way that makes you feel incredibly special when you step into its spotlight.
The universe doesn’t care about you. The universe isn’t a grand puppet master pulling the strings, all right?” “How do you know?” “Look, I’m not going to get into a theological discussion on my way to the office. But this woo-woo malarkey? Just an excuse to take zero responsibility for yourself. Okay? The universe is vast, exploding chaos. There’s no reason to it. You think the universe had some agenda behind giving a thirty-five-year-old woman who was the love of my goddamn life breast cancer and killing her before her kid could even string a sentence together? What kind of fucking universe
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We sit down on my inflatable couch, which makes farting noises that I’m not feeling humorous enough to joke about.
I am so unhinged. The worst kind of unhinged—sane enough to be aware of how insane I’m acting.
“Jesus can’t help you now, love, he’s long dead. And has there ever been a man more overrated? Let’s not speak of him, please, not in my casa.”
“Don’t you need to edit the book though?” I ask. “Pish posh,” she scoffs. “I don’t believe in editing or second drafts. Writing a memoir should be like life, messy and true. You don’t get chances to fix your mistakes in life, so why should you when you’re writing a book about your life?”
With a quiet sigh, I take a handful of pills and rain them into the water, pitter-patter. It’s heartbreaking to peer at them floating in there, a colorful soup, so much beautiful, mood-altering potential.
“I’m graysexual,” I say. “Grayromantic.” His mouth is still open but his eyebrows furrow. “The hell is that? You like old men?”
Forgetting is pretending. It’s an art form.
