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He’s such a cliché of himself. College co-eds, for fuck’s sake. “You and Bundy,” I murmur, my lips barely moving.
You learn everything about a person when they think they’re alone.
What I do feel, I feel intensely: rage, revulsion, and pleasure. These are elemental forces inside of me, like wind, ocean, and molten rock.
My life with my mother was chaotic and miserable, but I saw beautiful things created all around me. It gave me hope that loveliness could bloom out of ugliness and scarcity.
The pod is a state of perfect concentration. It’s my nirvana, my state of meditative bliss. Nothing can bother me there. Nothing can upset me. In the pod, I’m my truest self. Alone. Utterly at peace.
I’ve never been a fan of people who smile too much. It feels like they’re trying to force you to smile back at them, which makes my face tired.
What the fuck is happening. I almost feel . . . jealous. I’ve never been jealous before. Why would I? No one on this planet has anything I envy.
“Great men don’t always make great fathers,” she says. I shrug. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t know any good fathers.”
Tolstoy said that happy families are all alike, but unhappy families are unhappy in their own way.
