The Twisted Ones

by T. Kingfisher

Maybe you’re me. Maybe I’m just writing this to get it all out of my head, so that I can stop thinking about it. That seems likely.

Bongo is an excellent watchdog, by which I mean that he will watch very alertly as the serial killer breaks into the house and skins me.

“Just like men,” she muttered. “Periods scare the crap out of ’em, so they assume the whole damn world’s scared of it too.”

It’d be pretty inconvenient to cross the Atlantic whenever you needed to get a confused teenager knocked up by a rock. The fact that I even had to think this sentence was probably proof that things had gotten badly out of hand.

Thanks, self. That was real helpful. A+ coping mechanism.

I didn’t know whether to embrace that voice or try to smother it. It was like standing on a cliff and hearing the little voice that tells you to jump. For all I know, once you jump off, that voice says, Isn’t this fascinating? all the way down. Listen to the wind rushing by your ears. Isn’t that interesting? Look at how sharp the rocks are below you. Aren’t you intrigued?