gone-girl

what are you thinking, Amy? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we ddone to each other? What will we do?

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.

I think of that, too: her mind. Her brain, all those coils, and her thoughts shuttling through those coils like fast, frantic centipedes. Like a child, I picture opening her skull, unspooling her brain and sifting through it, trying to catch and pin down her thoughts. What are you thinking, Amy?

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

I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script.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-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls.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.

Desi has loved me ever since the lie, I know he pictures making love to me, how gentle and reassuring he would be as he plunged into me, stroking my hair. I know he pictures me crying softly as I give myself to him.

Can you imagine, finally showing your true self to your spouse, your soul mate, and having him not like you?

I'm just tired of people judging me because I fit into a certain mold.

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.

All of a sudden you see reading in bed and waffles on Sunday and laughing at nothing and his mouth on yours. And it's so far beyond fine that you know you can never go back to fine.