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She wanted to find a loose thread in the twilight. Pull it. See what shined so brightly behind it, through the snags.
You don't want to be pitied."
"Why not?"
"I don't really know, but I know that you don't want it. No one ever wants anyone else's pity. In the movies anyway.
Time had her by the throat, and the more she squirmed the tighter it gripped.
hands were always the worst giveaway in a pretend sleep attempt, sleeping hands being impossible to fake.
It's odd the way that things tend to stop looking like themselves when you take their motion away.
She wanted to be as still as they, wanted to be drawn into the dirt and reborn a million times, at the same time, like each little blade of smooth grass.
Goddammit. I hate when crying just happens to you Like when you're being yelled at by someone or you're very nervous, there's a hostile takeover of your face and chest and all of a sudden you're a crying baby.
Hell is a library," she said, tightening her fresh knot.
"That really doesn't sound bad, Julia."
"That's because I'm not finished. Hell is a library of books containing every word you've ever said, and videotapes of everything you've ever done."
"So what. Do you have to watch them?"
"No, you don't have to. But would you be able to help yourself? It would be unbearable. I couldn't resist, but I would hate myself after." She gave the noose two good, hard tugs. "Plus, even if you could resist the temptation, you'd eventually get so bored that you'd do anything. And the only thing to read is stuff that you've said and the only thing to do is watch yourself.
Soda pop and cotton candy and every face you've never noticed.
Once you've spit something out, you can't eat it back up again. People don't forget.
Because I'm evil, that's why. I'm an evil monster, two at once all the time and both evil. That's why.
From day one I was an inconvenience. But apparently I was a very cute baby so that helped my case a bit.
but maybe, also, she doesn't know how to talk to us because she's so weird.
Hers was the only face I could see right now, the only voice I could bear to hear.
Just to warn you, I die at the end of all of this. So don't get too attached to me or anything.
Quivering eyelids closed over wild eyeballs. Paddleball heartbeat, awake beneath the costume of sleep.
The bathroom was the place to do strange, socially unacceptable things.
Eyeglasses and teeth: both breakable, valuable things that you have to carry with you all the time. Hanging there precariously like earrings without backings, threatening to fall out, chip off, crack to the quick because of some innocent nut or seed or beer bottle.
an attempt at effortlessness is a paradox at the very least.
parents are just as responsible for your death as they are for your birth. They set you on the tangent along which you inevitably die.
I'm the reasons that partners have to be assigned in school instead of chosen, or why teachers have to pick the teams in gym class instead of letting kids separate on their own.
Real teacups are too small. No room for sloshing around so they're impossible to carry anywhere. Those cups force you to sit and be seated and do nothing but sip. Maybe that's why ladies in Victorian movies are never DOING anything. Bound to the table by their teacups. Bound to the table by THE THREAT OF MESS.
That's what fresh babies look like. You should see it. Horrific. Your vagina rips in two and this purpled, wrinkled creature comes flying out. And you're stuck with it.
The volcanic bubbling of everything in one pan made it very difficult to hear a crying child on the doorstep.
when I stare at myself for a really long time, I stop looking human. The way that a word starts to seem unreal as you repeat it, my face unravels.
The problem is, you can't fake dead hands. That invisible something that fills dead or sleeping hands, making them appear strange and inanimate, is impossible to imitate.
You're nothing but an intruder. A germ. A piece of sand agitating my oyster. But you're not a pearl; you're a tumor or a wart or a cyst.
Real smoker's fingers aren't scared of the burning embers; their fingers coexist with it.
No wonder serial killers liked to chop up women," Julia said. "They seem so much better when they're just bits and pieces.
I excel at withholding. Resisting. Denying satisfaction.
Sometimes I feel like I'm disappearing.