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Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them. —Margaret Atwood
Everyone who drank the way she did had a reason, she supposed, and she had never pressed him for his.
The fact was, she was almost never all that hungry. After years of boozing it up, it was as if her body craved its calories from alcohol.
The irony of blackouts was this: you had to have a spectacular alcohol tolerance to black out. Amateur drinkers passed out long before they put the hippocampus—those folds in the gray matter where memories are made—to sleep. She was a pro. Partial blackouts happened when the blood alcohol hit the magic 0.2; en bloc or total blackouts occurred when you ratcheted up the number to an undeniably impressive 0.3. The bar for drunk driving, by comparison, was a fraction of those numbers: a mere 0.08.
She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had sex sober, and wondered a little now at the synaptic connection between her body—body image, really—and booze. Between intimacy and intoxicants.
“It’s a terrible era when idiots are allowed to govern the blind,”
Good Lord, half of America was pretty sure their own president was a Russian puppet.
smart girl is nobody’s pushover and nobody’s foe. A smart girl is both sword and smile.
He was a destruction engineer.
Why was any man interested in her? she wanted to ask in return. The answer was simple: because she was a drunk and she was easy.
