People love talking, and I have never been a huge talker. I carry on an inner monologue, but the words often don't reach my lips.
Catalog
Gillian Flynn
Gillian Schieber Flynn (/ˈɡɪliən/; born February 24, 1971) is an American author, screenwriter, comic book writer and former television critic for Entertainment Weekly. Flynn's three published novels are the thrillers Sharp Objects, Dark Places, and Gone Girl, the last of which she adapted for the screen in the 2014 film of the same name directed by David Fincher. 2Early life and educationEdit Flynn was born in Kansas City, Missouri and raised in midtown Kansas City's Coleman Highlands neighborhood. Both of her parents were professors at Metropolitan Community College–Penn Valley: her mother, Judith Ann (née Schieber), was a reading-comprehension professor, and her father, Edwin Matthew Flynn, was a film professor. She has an older brother, Travis, who is a railroad machinist. Her uncle is Jackson County Circuit Court Judge Robert Schieber. Flynn was "painfully shy" and found escape in reading and writing. Growing up, Flynn's father would take her to watch horror movies. Flynn attended Bishop Miege High School and graduated in 1989. As a teenager, she worked odd jobs which required her to do things such as dress up as a giant "yogurt cone who wore a tuxedo." She attended the University of Kansas, where she received her undergraduate degrees in English and journalis
You suffer through the night with the perfect-on-paper man. The stutter of jokes misunderstood, the witty remarks lobbed and missed. Or maybe he understands that you’ve made a witty remark but, unsure of what to do with it, he holds it in his hand like some bit of conversational phlegm he will wipe…
So I know I am right not to settle, but it doesn’t make me feel better as my friends pair off and I stay home on Friday night with a bottle of wine and make myself an extravagant meal and tell myself, This is perfect, as if I’m the one dating me.
He’s doing what you tell him to do because he doesn’t care enough to argue, I think. Your petty demands simply make him feel superior, or resentful, and someday he will fuck his pretty, young coworker who asks nothing of him, and you will actually be shocked.
Tampon commercial, detergent commercial, maxi pad commercial, windex commercial - you'd think all women do is clean and bleed.
Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers…
You drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, That was fine. And your life is a long line of fine.
There's a difference between really loving someone and loving the idea of her.
Bang bang bang. I understand now why so many horror movies use that device-the mysterious knock on the door-because it has the weight of a nightmare. You don't know what's out there, yet you know you'll open it. You'll think what I think: No one bad ever knocks.
I felt a queasy mixture of relief and horror: when you finally stop an itch and realize it’s because you’ve ripped a hole in your skin.
I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. You know the awful singsong of the blasé: Seeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is:…
Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. (But who also kind of likes my bullshit.) And yet: Don’t land me in one of those relationships where we’re always pecking at each other, disguising insults as jokes, rolling our eyes and ‘playfully’ scrapping in front of…
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.
'My gosh, Nick, why are you so wonderful to me?' He was supposed to say: 'You deserve it. I love you.' But he said, 'Because I feel sorry for you.' 'Why?' 'Because every morning you have to wake up and be you.
There’s a difference between really loving someone and loving the idea of her.
What are you thinking? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do?
My sweater was new, singing red and ugly.
Everyone has their own version of a memory.
I like checking days off a calendar—151 days crossed and nothing truly horrible has happened. 152 and the world isn’t ruined. 153 and I haven’t destroyed anyone. 154 and no one really hates me. Sometimes I think I won’t ever feel safe until I can count my last days on one hand. Three more days to…
I've always been partial to the image of liquor as lubrication, a layer of protection from all the sharp thoughts in your head.