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It’s ironic, really, she said. This is the pinnacle of late capitalism, isn’t it? To be lured by wealth, to be murdered for wanting it, and then to be transformed into a one-of-a-kind object, a kind of rejection-of and reaction-to mass production?
“You’re triggering Bernice by looking dead,” says Ashlee. “I’m triggering myself by being me,” says Ruby.
“What makes you so annoying, Bernice,” says Ruby, “is that you’re not actually as ugly or as stupid as you think.”
“Just because you agree to something doesn’t mean you aren’t being taken advantage of,” says Raina.
She was a virgin because of Jesus or whatever, which, if you ask me, is at least as bad as being a slut.
Rich kids are inventive. Poor kids just lie.
“You don’t think your smallness, your quietness, takes up space?”
“Aisha says morals create a labyrinth of rules geared toward blaming the victim,” says Bernice.
What if, for some of us, moving on involves finding good in the bad? Or being thankful for how we changed? That doesn’t mean we wished it to happen.”
To be blunt, she was not an attractive person. She had a pinched nose and tiny eyes. But she had her advantages: rich parents, which afforded her a degree from NYU, an apartment in SoHo, the money she needed to ride out an unpaid internship worry-free, a financial safety net that would allow her to try and try and try until she succeeded, until she could say she had worked hard and it had finally paid off, that success was a matter of pluck, not luck of the draw. She had never waitressed—I was sure of it—she had never smiled at lecherous diners for an extra buck. She was born into money, and I
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You can’t change the past, but it’s infinitely reframeable. You can tell the same story over and over a hundred different ways, and every version is a little right and every version is a little wrong.
