gillian-flynn

Because you can't be as in love as we were and not have it invade your bone marrow. Our kind of love can go into remission, but it's always waiting to return. Like the world's sweetest cancer.

It was one of the few stories we told the same way.

I feel like Amy wanted people to believe she really was perfect. And as we got to be friends, I got to know her. And she wasn't perfect. You know? She was brilliant and charming and all that, but she was also controlling and OCD and a drama queen and a bit of a liar. Which was fine by me. It just wasn't fine by her. She got rid of me because I knew she wasn't perfect.

I__e grown quite weary of the spunky heroines, brave rape victims, soul-searching fashionistas that stock so many books. I particularly mourn the lack of female villains _ good, potent female villains. Not ill-tempered women who scheme about landing good men and better shoes (as if we had nothing more interesting to war over), not chilly WASP mothers (emotionally distant isn__ necessarily evil), not soapy vixens (merely bitchy doesn__ qualify either). I__ talking violent, wicked women. Scary women. Don__ tell me you don__ know some. The point is, women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves _ to the point of almost parodic encouragement _ we__e left no room to acknowledge our dark side. Dark sides are important. They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids.

I lack formal education. So I'm left with the feeling that I'm smarter than everyone around me but that if I ever got around really smart people__eople who went to universities and drank wine and spoke Latin__hat they__ be bored as hell by me. It__ a lonely way to go through life.

I am a great husband because I am very afraid she may kill me

My parents have always worried that I__ take Amy too personally _ they always tell not to read too much into her, And yet I can__ fail to notice that whenever I screw something up, Amy does it right: When I finally quit violin at age twelve, Amy was revealed as a prodigy in the next book. (__heesh, violin can be hard work, but handwork is the only way to get better!_) When I blew off the junior championship at age sixteen to do a beach weekend with friends, Amy recommitted to the game. (__heesh, I know it__ fun to spend time with friends, but I__ be letting myself and everyone else down if I didn__ show up for the tournament._) This used to drive me mad, but after I wend off to Harvard (and Amy correct those my parents_ alma mater), I decided it was all too ridiculous to think about. That my parents, two child psychologists, chose this particular public form of passive-aggressiveness toward their child was not just fucked up but also stupid and weird and kind of hilarious.