Sleeping Beauties

by Stephen King

Another part of getting older: you forgot what you wanted to remember, and remembered what you wanted to forget.

Tru was an asshole standard. Tiffany would ask herself, “Is so-and-so a bigger asshole than Truman?” Few could compare—in fact, so far, officially, there was only Donald Trump and cannibals.

people loved their pets, often with a degree of openness they couldn’t allow themselves to express toward other people.

Mothers were naturals for law enforcement, because toddlers, like criminals, were often belligerent and destructive.

“The Aztecs believed that black moths were omens of bad luck,” Mary said. She had lost interest in the tennis match going on below. “There are people out in the hollers who still believe a white moth in the house means someone’s going to die.”

“According to the Blackfeet Indians, brown moths bring sleep and dreams.”

Except you couldn’t put anything behind you. Nothing was lost until death or Alzheimer’s took it all. He knew that. He saw it confirmed in every session he held with every prisoner; you wore your history like a necklace, a smelly one made of garlic. Whether you tucked it under your collar or let it dangle loose, nothing was lost. You fought the fight over and over, and you never won the milkshake.

sometimes you get what you want, but mostly you get what you get.

Loss changes you. Sometimes that’s bad. Sometimes it’s good. Either way, you eat your goddam pork chop and go on.