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turns out you’re just batshit crazy like everyone else in this family.”
Yes, he was kind of glad that Mira was leaving. He was always glad when she left, but he was always glad when she came back. And wasn’t that the definition of a happy marriage?
I am a happy person, always have been. But that’s just my personality, which has nothing to do with this broken brain that periodically and very convincingly tells me that I’m a worthless person who doesn’t deserve to live.
Felt.
Her life was good. She’d come through foul weather and torrential rain to stand in the sun.
Haven’t we all??
They’d immediately bonded, mostly because the other four residents of the damp, drafty house were like a coven of vegan shut-ins.
he always smelled nice, like coffee and cinnamon.
This is what my husband smells like I swear!
dull sex had nothing whatsoever to do with Hen’s mental health and everything to do with the institution of marriage.
All men looked alike to him. They either had fox faces or pig faces. Scott was a fox face, while the drummer and the bass player both had pig faces.
“That’s the type of art I like, when it freaks you out.”
If you gave a man just the smallest amount of power—a handsome face, the ability to sing, a little money—the first thing he’d do is destroy a woman, or two if he could.
For no good reason, she sometimes believed that if she’d been a lesbian, her life would be more interesting than it was.
“Strangers are just friends we haven’t met yet,
They had a secret, the two of them, and there was no better way to start a friendship than with a secret.
Donald Hoogheem,
The names some authors come up with, amiright??
“People are defined by their actions. What they do is who they are.”
She was, after all, being offered something that most people were never offered: A look inside someone’s mind. A look inside a monster’s mind. Of course anybody would be interested. It was why people watched true-crime shows and read books about serial killers. It was why people liked her artwork. She was well aware that the more disturbing her etchings, the more interest they received.
He wasn’t sure, of course, that he was cheating, but it was a definite possibility. He was a man, after all, and that’s what men did.
But all marriages must be a little bit like that. How well could you really know another person?
Men were creeps. Like all women, she’d known this for a long time.
She’d had a romantic notion of one of those marriages you read about in biographies: messy, creative, romantic, and laced with infidelities. It wasn’t what she wanted now, not by a long shot, but she recognized the appeal.
“That every man is the same? No, but it’s a spectrum and every man is on it.
One thing about spending your day with teenagers was that they were so consumed by their own internal dramas that they were oblivious to the fact that the adults had problems of their own.
