Eileen

by Ottessa Moshfegh

But I deplored silence. I deplored stillness. I hated almost everything. I was very unhappy and angry all the time. I tried to control myself, and that only made me more awkward, unhappier, and angrier.

That is what I imagined life to be—one long sentence of waiting out the clock.

I didn’t want anyone to think I was susceptible to bad breath, or that there were any organic processes occurring inside my body at all. Having to breathe was an embarrassment in itself.

A grown woman is like a coyote—she can get by on very little. Men are more like house cats. Leave them alone for too long and they’ll die of sadness.

I sincerely believed that if there were less of me, I would have fewer problems.

At night my bed is full of love, because I alone am in it.

I cry easily, from pain and pleasure, and I don’t apologize for that.

Idealism without consequences is the pathetic dream of every spoiled brat, I suppose.