Don't be discouraged - every relationship you have is a failure, until you find the right one.
Catalog
Book
Dark Places
From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Gone Girl, and the basis for the major motion picture starring Charlize Theron Libby Day was seven when her mother and two sisters were murdered in “The Satan Sacrifice of
Characters
I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ.
I hate people who start conversations with facts - what are you supposed to do with that? Sure is hot today. Yes, it is.
Sometimes it feels good to fuck with something. Instead of always being fucked with.
The phrase 'fuck you' may not rest on the tip of my tongue, but it’s near. Midtongue.
It seemed like a joke, how much all of these dudes looked alike, like living was so hard it just erased your features, rubbed out anything distinctive.
Worries find you easily enough without inviting them.
I'm not someone who can be depended one five days a week. Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday? I don't even get out of bed five days in a row. I often don't remember to eat five days in a row. Reporting to a workplace, where I should need to stay for eight hours, eight big hours outside my home…
You think you know the answer, you’re going to find peace? Like knowing is somehow going to fix you? You think after what happened there’s any peace for you, sweetheart? How about this. Instead of asking yourself what happened, just accept that it happened.
I should just listen to my gut and then do the opposite.
There are few phrases that annoy me more than 'I won't bite.' The only line that pisses me off faster is when some drunk, ham-faced dude in a bar sees me trying to get past him and barks: 'Smile, it can't be that bad!' Yeah, actually, it can, jackwad.
Don't be discouraged - every relationship you have is a failure, until you find the right one.
I am, I guess, depressed. I guess I've been depressed for about twenty-four years. I can feel a better version of me somewhere in there - hidden behind a liver or attached to a bit of spleen within my stunted, childish body - a Libby that's telling me to get up, do something, grow up, move on.
I am not angry or sad or happy to see you. I could not give a shit. You don't even ripple.
It was surprising that you could spend hours in the middle of the night pretending things were okay, and know in thirty seconds of daylight that simply wasn't so.
The truly frightening flaw in humanity is our capacity for cruelty - we all have it.
I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ. Slit me at my belly and it might slide out, meaty and dark, drop on the floor so you could stomp on it.
I was not a lovable child, and I'd grown into a deeply unlovable adult. Draw a picture of my soul, and it'd be a scribble with fangs.
When I was fourteen, I thought a lot about killing myself—it’s a hobby today, but at age fourteen it was a vocation. On a September morning, just after school started, I’d gotten Diane’s .44 Magnum and held it, babylike, in my lap for hours. What an indulgence it would be, to just blow off my head,…
I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ. Slit me at my belly and it might slide out, meaty and dark, drop on the floor so you could stomp on it.