Lisa Unger

He’ll do it again, honey. Cheaters keep cheating.

In some sense—war, climate change, genocide, cults, pedophilia, rape, murder, most crime in general—men were responsible for a good portion of the world’s ills.

In this Instagram world, everyone wanted to broadcast filtered versions of their best moments, and bury everything else.

All the dull, shameful things, all the flawed, failed ventures and endeavors, hidden. Where did people put those things?

Something fired off in Pearl’s brain, the kind of joy she could only achieve when thinking about fiction—the words of others, or the stories that she herself wove, alone in her bed at night.

She liked the shadows. That’s where you got to see all the things that other people missed.

Your home is the heart of your life.

people were so wrapped up in their own inner hurricane that they never saw anything outside the storm of themselves.

It was the feeling that made her want to key beautiful cars, or slash priceless art, or make happy people cry.

They said you could never really clean away all traces of blood. The hemoglobin always stayed behind, sank into porous surfaces, clung to fibers.