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Kindle Notes & Highlights
The young man in question was long and creamy. A delight; a cream puff stuffed to bursting with pointed sweetness
From a distance an ellipses looks solid.
Indeed, I can think of only three lovers who have seen where I live; my home is mine, and I don’t like to share.
or, if you’re cheap, to snag a copy from your public library.
Guilty as charged
It was a metronome of blood, a ticking of the heart’s time, told in rich red.
It didn’t take long for the forensic psychology and criminal justice students to start fluttering to me, like common gray moths to a bonfire.
homunculus
Literally just read bookshops and bonedust with this type of character in it. Weird synchronicity
“That’s right, my darling.” Her lips red, eternally red, infinitely red, an everlasting crimson circle. “No bastards.”
I do enjoy men with a whiff of menace.
Marco, it transpired, was married. This development was thrilling. Mistresses have much power and so little responsibility; it’s hard not to respond to the pure erotics of the situation.
The only thing I can do is make my trouble your joy—because here’s the thing about reading my memoir: it will make you feel good about yourself. You feel morally superior even as you identify with me. You slip into the supple skin of a cannibal for nearly three hundred pages, and enjoy it; then you can slough it off, go about your happy, moral business, and feel like you are a better person.
We as an English-speaking people can’t not eat our dead—our language loves a cannibal. We don’t just win at sports, we kill the other team; we demolish them; we devour our opponents. To express our appreciation for a baby’s cuteness, we say we could eat her up.
As Christians sip that wine and let that wafer dissolve on their tongues, these words roll around in their heads: “This is my body; this is my blood.” Cannibalism is so deeply ingrained in our culture that a good portion of us engage in the sacred act once a week.
you know the answer would be delicious. Roll that word around in your mouth and feel the tang of its call.
How many I’ve killed doesn’t matter to anyone but my beloved behavioral science Ph.D. students, to you, and to my victims, I suppose.
It was a lovely day for a little homicide.
An average cow produces 490 pounds of trimmed, edible meat; it also produces about 12 tons of shit, or 24,000 pounds, during its lifespan. Vast truckloads of shit must be moved, somewhere, to get that steak on the plate or that burger on the bun. Think about that the next time you unwrap your BK Double.
You’d likely enjoy it if I stopped narrating this chapter at this precise moment. You—comfortable in your chair, snug in your bed, rocking somnolent on the train, curved around your Kindle, or propping your book open in your splayed hands—probably are making a silent wish for me to table the gruesome details. You’re tempted to thumb ahead, to skip this section where I detail the skinning, gutting, stripping, and slicing of this corpse that once was my living, breathing, ejaculating lover. It’s for your own good that I tell these bits. It’s for your own good that you hear them. You’ve come too
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She was the reflection I saw in the mirror, for true monsters can’t see themselves.
