Bunny (Bunny, #1)

by Mona Awad

“I just have to figure out the right wording. So they don’t think I hate them.” She stares at me. “But Smackie, you do hate them.”

Me when I people please

Why do you lie so much? And about the weirdest little things? my mother always asked me. I don’t know, I always said. But I did know. It was very simple. Because it was a better story.

As though everyone in the academic world has just now discovered that they are vesseled in precarious, fastly decaying houses of bone and flesh and my god, what material.

That not being understood is a privilege I can’t afford. That I can’t believe this woman got paid to come here. That I think she should apologize to trees. Spend a whole day on her knees in the forest, looking up at the trembling aspens and oaks and whatever other trees paper is made of with tears in her languid eyes and say, I’m fucking sorry.

But I doubt you did any of those things unless you have a mullet or a deep sense of irony.

never known how to be in this world without most of my soul dreaming up and living in another.

Being a funny Bunny.

I love them honestly

And that’s when I realize that whatever pain I have, whatever true want I have that lives under all this greasy, spineless needing to please isn’t something I want to give them.