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Time binds us, time flattens us out, time makes us familiar.
Stories are, like justice or a skyscraper, things that humans fabricate.
There’s a lot to be said for intimidating intelligence and a dearth of conscience, and I possess both.
Indeed, I am the Bronze Copper of psychopaths, a big, beautiful auburn butterfly that flaps her darkling wings as she eats. I am rare, and sequestered in this endlessly gray penal institution, I am endangered.
As a woman psychopath, the white tiger of human psychological deviance, I am a wonder, and I relish your awe.
Feminism comes to all things, it seems, but it comes to recognizing homicidal rage the slowest.
He seemed to mistake passion for love, and insanity for passion.
Some men need to witness female anger to believe in that woman’s love. Some women need to get angry to experience that love. Some people grow together like horrible species of lichen.
She removed herself from the world, and the world moved on.
Every day the garden ran more to riot; every day my mother diminished. Run to its inevitable end, fecundity will always turn to decay.
No matter what you do, be excellent at it, and always look your best.” She paused. “That way the bastards won’t ever get you down.”
From my mother, I learned that beauty was armor. From my teenage friends, I learned that femininity was junk. They were both right.
There’s much to be said for being young, beautiful, and independently wealthy, however ephemeral these qualities may be.
I find it deeply entertaining. It becomes annoying only when they start talking, as if I’d have any interest in anything that comes out of their mouths.
why abdicate power when you have become accustomed to the joy of it.
Don’t believe the lies. Don’t believe those lies, anyway. Believe others, if it makes you feel safe. Safety, too, is a lie.
I don’t want to be forgotten. Kill one man and you’re an oddity. Kill a few and you’re a legend.
You wake up with someone one too many mornings and you realize that any magic you’d seen was magic you’d made.
It’s surprisingly easy to overcome moral qualms, if you give in to the appetite.
It wasn’t guilt, not really, not as I fumble to understand what “guilt” means. It was more the pervasive fear that I’d be found out—or possibly the fear that I wouldn’t.
We are a rare breed. Worship us.
I look back at that impotent time and I think, This is how ordinary people must feel every day. You poor, pitiful fools.
It was a farce, I said, an airless, gutless, disembodied joke. The Internet was a rank, foul, fetid entity, and I was being swallowed by a weightless monster of binary code. My life was over.
The unapologetically guilty woman sleeps soundly at night.
nothing is beautiful, except memory.
Choices are, after all, the things that haunt us. The moments when we could’ve turned left but turned right. The times when we could’ve gone back but forged ahead. The instants when we made decisions that we would live to regret.
