My demons aren't remotely tackled, they're just mildly concussed.
Mama Mo does not insist. She simply makes things a reality by assuming they are such:
Lyle Wirth looked like a serial killer. Which meant he probably wasn’t one. If you were chopping up hookers or eating runaways, you’d try to look normal.
Love makes you want to be a better man - right, right. But maybe love, real love, also gives you permission to just be the man you are.
Las palabras permanecían en silencio.
La gente hace lo que se supone que debe hacer y después espera a que los colmes con tu aprecio; son como los empleados de las tiendas de yogur helado que dejan vasos sobre la barra para que eches la p...
Just as Amy took the credit for making me my best self, I had to take the blame for bringing the madness to bloom in Amy. There were a million men who would have loved, honored, and obeyed Amy and con...
I’m not one of those reporters who relishes picking through people’s privacy. It’s probably the reason I’m a second-rate journalist.
I’m barely five foot—four foot, ten inches in truth, but I round up. Sue me. I’m thirty-one, but people tend to talk to me in singsong, like they want to give me fingerpaints.
I’d let the words run over my brain and out my ears, like a terrified cancer patient hearing all that coded jargon and understanding nothing, except that it was very bad news.
It’s the rule of all potentially prickly interviews: Don’t go on the offense until you have to, first see if they’ll hang themselves all on their own.
It’s good.’ She chirps the last bit as if that were all to say about a book: It’s good or it’s bad. I liked it or I didn’t. No discussions of the writing, the themes, the nuances, the structure. Just...
It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters.And if all of us are play-ac...
It was surprising that you could spend hours in the middle of the night pretending things were OK, and know in thirty seconds of daylight that that simply wasn’t so.
It was a constant problem: too much control or no control at all.
It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again.
Imagine the jacket copr: People behaved mostly well and then they died.
If you let a man cancel plans or decline to do things for you, you lose. You don’t get what you want. It’s pretty clear. Sure, he may be happy, he may say you’re the coolest girl ever, but he’s saying...
I'm like that, nothing sticks.
I'm here, I said, and it felt shockingly comforting, those words. When I'm panicked, I say them aloud to myself. I'm here. I don't usually feel that I am.