Jeff Lindsay

Whatever made me the way I am left me hollow, empty inside, unable to feel. It doesn't seem like a big deal. I'm quite sure most people fake an awful lot of everyday human contact. I just fake it all. I fake it very well, and the feelings are never there.

After a long moment I closed the freezer door. I wanted to lie down and press my cheek against the cool linoleum. Instead I reached out with my little finger and flipped the Barbie's head. It went thack thack against the door. I flipped it again. Thack thack. Whee. I had a new hobby.

I enjoyed watching good-looking idiots looking at each other. A great spectator sport.

I think people understand things different when they get older. It’s not a question of getting soft, or seeing things in the gray areas instead of black and white. I really believe I’m just understanding things different. Better.

It’s like, everything really is two ways, the way we all pretend it is and the way it really is

I was good at being charming, one of my very few vanities.

Another dream. Another long-distance call on my phantom party line. No wonder i had steadfastly refused to have dreams for most of my life. So stupid; such pointless, obvious symbols. Totally uncontrollable anxiety soup, hateful, blatant nonsense.

Really now: If you can't get me my newspaper on time, how can you expect me to refrain from killing people?

Perhaps because I'll never be one, humans are interesting to me.

Anybody can be charming if they don't mind faking it, saying all the stupid, obvious, nauseating things that a conscience keeps most people from saying. Happily, I don't have a conscience. I say them.

I'm a very neat monster.

Why do so many people start their messages with, "It's me"? Of course it is you. We all know that. But who the hell ARE you?