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No man wears a sateen shirt without wanting to be petted.
There’s a lot to be said for intimidating intelligence and a dearth of conscience, and I possess both.
It’s not that women psychopaths don’t exist; it’s that we fake it better than men.
Love is the languid sigh of death,
Over trays of Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers and mountains of cooling fries, I learned that being female is as prefab, thoughtless, soulless, and abjectly capitalist as a Big Mac. It’s not important that it’s real. It’s only important that it’s tasty.
wrote, I learned, and I fucked—it was a classic liberal arts education.
My philosophy has always been that if you look hard enough, you will find something wicked on nearly every man—everyone has at least one devastating piece of information.
you will wear this on the outside so that on the inside, you will stand tall as a man. Do you understand?”
From my mother, I learned that beauty was armor. From my teenage friends, I learned that femininity was junk. They were both right.
and the salt-vinegar-and-sugar smell of steam tables. Everywhere you go there is something wonderful, if only you open your heart, your mind, your wallet, or your thighs.
Believe others, if it makes you feel safe. Safety, too, is a lie.
waistline, but they don’t cause cancer, and they taste divine. I’ll never understand people choosing to eat soulless foods—monsters all, say I, the cannibal.
mean their opinions, not their sentences—everyone here is innocent, everyone but me. You never see as many innocent people as you do in prison. Everyone
The unapologetically guilty woman sleeps soundly at night.
For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, ’til death do us part: a life sentence is like being married, but without the handholding.
family, lovers, husbands, or children—we let slide. Our friends see the frailties, the insecurities, the unattractive bits that we have to keep hidden from the rest of the world because—and this is the meat of the matter—it’s hard work to be a woman. It’s a full-time job. Our female friends, the close ones, are the mini-breaks we take from the totalitarian work it requires to keep up the performance of being female.
