Play Nice

The world will drive a woman insane, then point at them and laugh.

think it’s just easier to call someone crazy than it is to admit that they could be right. Easier to call someone crazy than to confront the nuance of their circumstance, than to accept the callous cruelty that exists in the world we live in, the evil out there that revels in our suffering.

Remembering is not always a light shone into darkness. Sometimes it’s a claw reaching out and dragging you back.

Behind every crazy woman is a man sitting very quietly, saying, “What? I’m not doing anything.

But so often, being right means nothing but winning a round of a losing game.

How many times have I witnessed a man declare he was outraged over some indiscretion that he himself was later found guilty of? How many proud gentlemen revealed to be wolves?

I empathize with the binding of this 15 year old paperback, in how it's struggling to keep it all together.

the easiest way to tell who a man really is, is to injure his ego and see how he reacts.

It just makes me wonder about belief and delusion. What’s the difference there, really? Maybe delusion is an eagerness to believe. A desperation for it.

I almost tell him that he smells like smoke, almost tell him that he smells like fascism, almost ask him if, after libraries, he plans on taking his flamethrower to the museums. I almost tell him how close I am to hating him. But my throat is sore, and I’m struggling to keep my eyes open.

Everyone in my life wants me to behave in a very specific way that’s beneficial to them, and as soon as I deviate from their expectations, it’s an issue. As soon as I act out of whatever role they cast me in in their lives, it’s somehow my fault.

Behind every crazy woman is a man sitting very quietly, saying, “What? I’m not doing anything.” —Jade

I wonder if love can be ugly. If it can do the wrong thing. Bad things. I wonder if it can ever really die.

Some lessons can only be taught by regret.

I want to get champagne drunk with her and have her tell me all her wild bullshit stories and give me compliment after compliment and let me rummage through her closet.

If we don’t remember something, how can we be sure it never happened?

When he finally speaks, it’s in a whisper. “The demon.” So dramatic. I wonder how good of a demonologist he is. How good of a demonologist can one really be?

I don’t spend a whole lot of time pawing around my memory. A childhood like mine doesn’t exactly invite reminiscing. But sometimes it eats at me. Wondering what memories are beyond retrieval, are totally lost. Wondering what hides in the haze.

Why, as a man, wear a slim gold chain if you’re open to commitment?

so often, being right means nothing but winning a round of a losing game.

Men are all the same, Mom once told us, but it’s the ones who try the hardest to convince you that they’re good that you really have to watch out for.

Resentment clanks against the prison of my teeth.

Motherhood irrevocably changed me. Years in

Part of me is flattered, because I love attention. We have that in common, the demon and me. I like being the favorite.

My reassurance is genuine. My resentment unfounded. Yet they exist in tandem, threads of the same rope.

I sip my champagne. I like it better than the beer. I wish I had simpler tastes, but I don’t.

I approached her

It takes so much to build an image. It takes next to nothing to destroy one.

Turns out, I was right. But so often, being right means nothing but winning a round of a losing game.

I remember flirting with Ethan at Veronica’s launch party. Lucky to live with scars, I said. And he said, Better to live without. I’m not totally sure. Who would I be without my scars? Who would my sisters be?