More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Satan: 1. Alexis: 0.
But like all good things in life, it came to an abrupt end, and we swam the River Styx (drowned in a forward-moving direction).
“I’m so proud right now...this is the best day of my life. I knew you had it in you, bestie. Pussy power, crush the patriarchy! Don’t stop now—murder them all. KILL EVERYONE IN THIS ROOM!”
With the two Spartan generals (power-hungry fascist dictators who were definitely suffering from undiagnosed mental disorders) gone, there was a collective sigh of relief in the library. We rejoiced over our avoidance of certain doom.
Yay, not being murdered in a fit of rage. Wahoo. God is good.
never said he didn’t hate you.” Nyx tightened around my throat. “That’s obvious. That man LOATHES you. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to murder you—in bed. If you know what I mean.”
“You’re an idiot,” Nyx scoffed, and I took the high road (pinched her until she shut up). Sometimes violence was the answer.
At this time in my life, I could not handle cult life. Maybe later, when I had more free time.
Everything wouldn’t be so bad, and it would all work out in the end. Delusion was one hell of a drug. Spoiler, it would not all just “work out.”
Men who hurt women didn’t deserve to live.
I was older than her, and I was her professor.
HOT
Aut viam inveniam aut faciam—I shall either find a way or make one.
Personally, I wished I was dead.
The key to surviving girlhood in an apocalypse was being adaptable—and period cups. Music also helped. So did Carl Gauss fan fiction.
Ohmygod, does he want me to count until he kills me? Who does that? “Uh, two?” I said. Yes, I was voluntarily participating in my own murder. No, I didn’t want to talk about it.
A whack with a shovel would not be enough for them. They needed to be hit by a car.
I wasn’t going to let this place make me mean.
What do you do when a monster wrongly thinks you’re also one?
The son of Aphrodite was on his knees before the Son of War.
“There are ancient beasts in the menagerie that will maul you if they feel threatened.” Thank God. Approach all the animals until one puts me out of my misery—got it.
A paradise in the middle of hell.
A falcon (government surveillance drone)
Why are the animals acting like I’m some terrifying monster? Apparently I was hard to love.
If I’d known all it would take was kneeing him in the crace (crotch, then face), I would have done it ages ago.
“Are you sure that’s a puppy? What’s wrong with its fur, and why is it so—lumpy?” God forbid someone be built a little different during an apocalypse. Everyone was a critic these days. We lived in dark times.
Without windows, time didn’t exist. Only misery did.
A hawk screeched in warning. Will the drones ever stop spying on us?
What do they call reverse favoritism? Wait, isn’t that bullying? Do they have HR around here? I need to report him.
Gravity was a cruel mistress.
I dragged my feet over the rolling hills, a wraith of a woman, more dead than alive.
Funnily enough, speech therapy wasn’t an option for a poor orphan in the protected zones. Neither was food. Or shelter.
Still, I laughed (panic-cackled) along with her, because that was what friends did.
The irony was undeniable: I was literally falling apart while angels spun around me.
Some moments punched the breath from your lungs and dragged you through the mud, reminding you why life sucked. Other moments stole your air in a glittering swirl and reminded you why life was magical.
Mental note—buy bleach and drink it.
We need to bring back people having shame.
Apparently, I had a knack for performance theater (stripping). This feels like a very lucrative talent. I should pursue this.
I cried harder because it was official: my best friend was a perverted lunatic. It was all too much. I couldn’t keep living like this.
Maximum made small talk the entire time. I wanted to die.
Numb. Frozen. Barely alive.
For the first time, he looked away first. I didn’t feel any satisfaction. In fact, I felt nothing at all.
Every week I starved, suffered from dehydration, cried while running the now freezing circuit, wished I could shower because I felt grimy, and studied until I wanted to die. This might be worse than high school. Maybe.
The truth of my existence was becoming depressingly obvious: people didn’t like me. There was something off about me. I was defective.
Yes, I was in my emo era. No, I didn’t want to talk about it—that was the point—however, as a commitment to the lifestyle, I was experimenting with swearing in my mind.
“Freak, fluck, biatch, crud, darn, flippin’, shrit,” I wailed despondently, but my eyes were bone-dry because emo girls didn’t cry (I’d cried yesterday). The despair continued.
She inspired me to want to kill myself less. Maybe.
I slumped onto my side and fantasized about all the creative ways I could off myself.
I just held his hand as he died.
I had nothing but fingernails and rage.
Story of my life
It was hell. But we were in it together.
