Sharp Objects

by Gillian Flynn

I ached once, hard, like a period typed at the end of a sentence.

They always call depression the blues, but I would have been happy to waken to a periwinkle outlook. Depression to me is urine yellow. Washed out, exhausted miles of weak piss.

The Mexicans get the shittiest, most dangerous jobs, and the whites still complain.

Girls I grew up with, who never had the energy to leave. It was a town that bred complacency through cable TV and a convenience store.