1-855-4-AMY-TIPS

It's rather extreme, framing your husband for your murder. I want you to know I know that. WIP.

[deamazed]

@asundered / nick.

Wives say this to their husbands.

Realistically, I know that this line is not the beginning of the horror movie reveal sequence that it feels like it is, but there's something about the way that Amy sits there so primly and properly on the edge of the bed with her hands folded and looks up at me with her hair still pulled tight in that immaculate ponytail that really makes me feel like my stomach is going to drop out of my asshole.

( Maybe it has nothing to do with the way that she is sitting, or the way that she is looking. Maybe it has something to do with the way I've only just stepped out of the shower after washing the Andie off my body. The way I came home and slunk up the staircase and like a coward avoided the kiss Amy tried to give me with one of those unbearably awkward side - hug - head - kiss movements because I knew, I feared, that she would somehow still taste Andie's cunt on my tongue, even though I'd haphazardly scrubbed my teeth with her own toothbrush before I'd left. Maybe it has something to do with that. )

I stand there for a moment in the doorway of the bathroom, barefoot and buck ass naked because I didn't bring in a change of clothes in my haste. Because I thought she'd have put herself to bed the way she sometimes does, quiet and oppressive and malicious in the meekness of the action, like she's daring me to ask What's Wrong? As if I would.

Like I said. Coward.

"You're not tired?"

Rest assured, readers. I am not the doting, blind, useless bitch wife that my dear, sweet, salt-of-the-earth husband thinks I am. I am the fucking lion he doesn’t want to face. I am the thorns on the inside of his wedding ring. See, Nick spends all his time working. Oh, my darling husband... he works so hard just to keep us afloat, in that big office, with his big projects so delicately placed under his thumb. (I’ve wondered for a while now, if projects under his thumb translates to three fingers and the deep red fuck me now lipstick I found on his shirt collar.)

I can smell hot cunt on him. Oh, how horrible. How terrible. My husband! I am forlorn! Spare the shit, Nick. We both know where you spend your evenings — tucked between a twenty year old’s thighs like the useless fucking coward that we both know you are. I wonder how you’ll react to this — do you want to have sex? when you stink so boldly of cheap perfume and another woman’s cunt. But you’re just about as stupid as the miserable bitch you think I am. And all I have to say is how fucking dare he.

“No, I — missed you.” I want him to hurt. I want him to stare at the ground and want it to swallow him fucking whole, because that’s what he likes, right? Deep-throated, nose-to-navel, ball-slapping swallowing. She doesn’t have a gag reflex, because that was trained out of her at the fresh, young age of eighteen, and she swallows every pathetic load he gives her like a good fucking girl. Cry me a fucking river, Nick.

“I feel like I’ve barely seen you recently.” I’ll play along. I’ll play the dumb bitch wife, as long as it cuts him each and every fucking time he looks my way. Boo fucking hoo. You play, you lose. You don’t play, your world comes crashing down anyway. I fucking win.

[flowerytale]

Susan Sontag, from As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks 1964-1980

[deivll]

lucifer sentence starters ↳ episode 1 – 3

i like to punish people too.

are you trying to bribe me?

it’s only money

.you break the law sometimes, don’t you?

it feels good to get away with something, doesn’t it?

go on, take it. buy yourself something pretty.

you little devil.

shouldn’t you be spending your valuable time doing something more significant?

don’t know. don’t care. not my problem.

he will not be merciful for much longer.

you’re famous, aren’t you?

did i sell my soul to the devil?

with all the good came a hell of a lot of bad.

so the devil made you do it, did he?

i suggested you work with him, not sleep with him.

oh god, i’m a mess.

what happens now – that’s up to you.

what did you do?!

why did you end her life?!

there’s gonna be a lot of attention on this one.

do you know the shooter?

like to play cop, do you?

i just like to play in general.

now, don’t you think that’s interesting?

immortality. of course. you spell that with one or two M’s? i always forget.

what will your corrupt little organisation do about this?

will you find the person responsible? will they be punished?

you’ve got some balls on you, pal.

i could swear i’ve seen you naked. have we had sex?

someone out there needs to be punished!

what is this, a wedding or a kidnapping?

it’s hard to be rejected, isn’t it?

i’d kill someone if they denied me. not that that’s possible.

did you want her dead?

i am not playing that mind game with you.

i really don’t want to have sex with him tonight.

i have narcotics for him.

can someone please turn down this god-awful music!

without the blues, there’d be no devil’s music whatsoever.

you’re being clear alright. if you’re looking to get yourself killed.

i didn’t kill her!

people sometimes kill people with whom they’re in love. the heart’s mysterious.

girl made me crazy!

welcome to the party!

i have far too many bullets in this thing for you to still be talking.

what do you desire more than anything else in this life?

you’re not like – a jedi or something, are you?

i know something you don’t know.

well, they’re threatened. you’re clearly smart and have notable instincts.

i don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in here.

that’s a hooker’s name.

i don’t know whether to laugh or to shoot you.

are you at all aware of how dickish you sound?

i wouldn’t recommend it. i’m like walking heroin.

i tend to appeal to the dark, mischievous hearts in all of you.

you seem oddly immune to my charms.

truth be told, i find you repulsive.

did you roofie her?

my word is my bond.

what’s your deepest, darkest desire?

you wouldn’t want any nasty secrets screwing that up for you though, would you?

god, you are a terrible liar.

despite your proclaimed revulsion, you can’t deny that there’s a connection between us.

i made her, and she ruined me.

i’m gonna punish you.

back off, you freak!

he needs to pay! he needs to suffer! he needs to feel the pain, not escape it!

i don’t want to die.

why aren’t you more dead?

you’re having a very hard time with the immortal thing, aren’t you?

i’m pretty sure i’d be dead if you hadn’t helped me, so thank you.

you know, you’re far too interesting to let die.

i think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

i’d stay for the family reunion, but it’s giving me terrible IBS.

you scared i’m turning my back on the dark side?

you wouldn’t want to start a war.

i look forward to eating your heart one day.

have you seen the face of the devil?

i’m willing to work within your metaphor.

i’d kick a puppy if one waltzed by. i’m joking. puppies don’t waltz.

i’m gonna figure out your secret.

i guess we both have our mysteries.

i’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

if i don’t affect you, i’m curious as to what does.

if you desire something, just take it.

you’re not gonna get away with this. i’m gonna make sure of it.

what are you hiding?

are you really gonna try and prove his innocence?

sorry, do you want a hit?

it’s ‘puff, puff, pass’, not 'puff, puff, stomp angrily.’

you brought pot to a crime scene?

i’m sure there’s some stragglers we could get into trouble with, huh?

it’s called a devil’s threesome for a reason.

if you’ve come to lecture me, can you just save it for later? i’m annoyingly sober right now.

you must have done something salacious in your youth.

i’m not gonna tell you anything.

i don’t want to know about the case, so you can keep your dirty little secrets.

i’ve seen the hatred in her eyes when she looks at you.

i just did everything i could to keep others from making the same mistakes i did.

who are you protecting?

i was hoping for sexy, salacious details, and i instead i got taken on a trip down depression lane.

don’t you dare disrespect me.

you will not speak to me this way!

am i interrupting some creepy foreplay you two have?

we all know what the road to hell is paved with, don’t we?

they don’t give out pulitzers for nip-slips.

if it’s any consolation, you look really good in it.

you don’t decide who gets punished and how.

let’s go deliver some punishment.

you’re a necessary evil.

i’ll kill you, you crazy bitch!

you both get a gun. let’s see who shoots first.

what’s to stop us from shooting you?

you’re interrupting my punishment.

you’re lucky i figured out your insane, ironic punishment before anyone got killed.

you tried to do some good. to help someone. don’t throw it all away.

i thought i’d use you to remedy a situation that i’ve mishandled and annoy you in the process.

you know exactly what i’m asking you.

didn’t mean to hurt you.

i hope the guy who hurt you got in lots of trouble.

i’m so very used to being in control of everything.

i doubt he’ll be able to string two words together right now, much less have a conversation.

what happened to you?

i can’t get away from him!

what’s the worst that can happen?

you could learn a thing or two from this guy.

you are in desperate need of my help.

i mean – you are like a four-leaf clover and a unicorn made a baby.

i’ve met your type before. so desperate to control their lives that they forget to enjoy it.

this is the fantasy life of a postmenopausal housewife.

i want to get laid so damn bad.

i very much beg your pardon?

i’m freaking out, okay?

i need that favour.

thanks for being super-cryptic in a really unhelpful way.

we’ve got a murder on our hands.

you forget that my expertise is finding the right people to punish.

so there’s a bona fide killer on the loose that needs to be punished.

haven’t i proven myself extremely useful at detectiving?

i don’t want to be stuck out here with these miscreants.

you call watching porn on your phone useful?

i wish i’d never met you.

the person responsible is still out there.

i just want to make sure that you’re punishing the right person.

this place is built on lies where nothing is authentic or genuine.

i’m gonna tear him limb from limb.

your anger toward this minor inconvenience feels a little disproportionate.

we need to ask you a few questions.

i don’t think the plan was to kill you.

i think they wanted to scare you.

you’re like two pathetic peas in a pod.

someone must’ve hired her for this.

if your problem’s that stick up your ass, i’m afraid there’s no one strong enough to pull that out.

am i up for encouraging someone to commit a nefarious act? put me in, coach.

your professional reputation has taken a bit of a dive. as has your sexual one, i’m afraid.

just sit tight and we’ll all get what we want.

you know who you’re messing with?

you’ve certainly been a busy bee, haven’t you?

it seems you’re a bit of a two-pump chump.

please don’t hurt me – please.

i’m not gonna hurt you. i’m going to destroy you.

see, that’s why i don’t lie. it’s so hard to keep track of who knows what.

i still don’t understand.

if he left me, i would be ruined.

she didn’t want to go through with it.

i’m finally focusing my anger where it belongs.

but you know what? you, uh – you stayed good to your word.

you are crazy. but you’re my crazy, you hear me?

are you too egotistical to acknowledge my help?

i think that’s why you’re here. to reinvent yourself.

i told you, i’m good at punishing people – nay, i’m the best at punishing people.

[deamazed]

fakedsciences​.

“I’ve heard that once or twice.”

Kieran hears a lot of compliments. He does not have a journal or diary or blog in which to keep them all straight. And then there is the matter of his own inner dialogue, his own self-directed affirmations that are so grandiose as to only be half true. It’s scary, that he actually believes the things that come out of his mouth. 

Brave, though — Kieran wonders if he is brave. Many would consider him a coward. He hides behind his land and his girls and other people’s money. He creates his own social structure to avoid one he finds distasteful (— but didn’t he choose this, America? I digress.)

But Kieran does feel brave. He knows he is certainly not meek; therefore, he must be the opposite, right? He thinks about Cain back in the apartment, waiting to press play on their Tarantino-or-something-adjacent, boys’ night flick. He isn’t sure why he’s thinking about that right now. He should probably stop. There is a beautiful woman right here, and maybe she will wait for him, too. 

“Kieran. Kieran Glass.” He likes being called an artist. He feels like one, sometimes — like he is the architect and mastermind behind some great, fictitious world you’d only see in maps and books. 

She asked for my name. She wants me. I hate to be reductive, but deep down, this is what it all comes down to. This is how he thinks. This is what he knows. 

“Look, I hate to look like some kind of creep coming up to you because you’re by yourself. But the nose thing was really compelling. Also, it’s not every day you see a beautiful woman drinking rosé at — well, this is practically a dive bar. Part of me, a masochistic part of me, wanted to see just how far out of my league you really are.” 

You’re probably thinking that this is... beneath me. In that patronising little oh, Amy... way when you think you know what’s going on, but really, it falls outside the remit of what we talk about when I write to you. I implore you, dear reader. Don’t turn on me too. See, the world boils down to two things: those who fit, and those who don’t. Those who squeeze themselves into Macy’s tracksuits and tuck their lopping bellies in under the grateful stretch of velour fabric, and those who watch them. I don’t fit here. And no, I’m not comparing myself to the Cheeto-fingered, sleep-apnoea’d, beer-drinking slobs that mill about town because they’ve got nothing better to do than wank into an empty sock and collect every last cent that the government strings them up with. That’s Carthage. My bones don’t fit.

I’ve never been a dive-bar gal. Nick used to bring me to them — way back when I was still playing his perfect woman. I was game. I drank beer from the bottle and ordered jalapeño poppers and ate them with my fingers like the perfect date would. I watched the fucking football games, all three dreary hours of sweaty meat slabs running up and down a field. But I never fit. Redneck country, as much as my dear husband hates me calling it, is about as lawless as it was three hundred years ago.

You can tell a lot about a man by the way they ask for your name. Or, in this case, don’t. I know you clocked that too. 

Hey, aren’t you Amazing Amy? That’s the usual response: my parents’ vapid children’s books that taught their sweet cherubs how to brush their teeth and strive for greatness.

“I think the word you’re looking for is... incredibly.” I’m teasing! I’m flirting — god forbid! Someone call the police — someone call my husband! I am That Woman, and I have nothing more to say about it. I think the worst thing about Nick is that he’s driven me from one side of the country to the other with little more than a can of beans and some motel mints to stave off the total fucking boredom he’s left me with. My life is inconsequential at this point. My life is in the leftover trashcan in the corner of our apartment.

“Maybe I just appreciate a sticky bar and someone else’s lipstick on my glass.”

[deamazed]

@batfall: you really don’t like him.

My face is a wax mould. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I can picture it — someone going in, latex gloves and resin, and smushing it into a pulp and starting again. Rubber hands push three fingers up and make my left eyelid too droopy, and pull one smile too crooked. I can see my lips being prised from my teeth and finely, and formidably, being pulled over the base of my chin. Sometimes, I think I’m a wick away from a melting candle.

Imagery aside, my face is mouldable. It lights up. It giggles. It frowns. It cries. But you stare at it for too long, and all that’s underneath is a puddle of liquid wax. Dear Diary, I can be anyone I decide to be. Anyone I need to be — that’s the real skill here, not the hmming and ohming of pathetic fawning giddy girls that stalwartly place themselves at the bottom of the food chain. No way, baby. I’m what eats the fucking lion.

You see a handsome man from across the room, but when he thinks no-one’s looking, he attempts to grab a tight fistful of the waitress’s ass — misses, thanks to the whiskey — and slips his number on a monogrammed business card into her breast pocket. Do you A) approach with caution — predators in the wild and all that, B) tell someone! Don’t let women suffer in silence! C) Watch. Plan. Men like that walk blindly, happily, following the promise of blowjobs and perky tits, into the sharpened maw of the beast.

Of course you watch. The wax slips. Before you know it, the rouge gloss of your lipstick curls up with your grimacing mouth, and your eyes roll. 

“Was I being obvious?” From across the room, picking at the peeling sticker from the base of the wine glass? Shoddy work, really. I pride myself on being better. So I straighten my back, mould my cheeks, and tug each corner up with my rubber mitts into a sorry fucking smile.

“I’m just watching — some people really can’t handle their drink.”

[henycavil]

GONE GIRL (2014) dir. David Fincher

[deamazed]

my only contribution thus far today

[deamazed]

@battlehood​ / nathaniel: you mind if we look around? 

By all means, look. Dig, and dig. Truffle pig to truffle pig.

I don’t care what they find, because there’s nothing to be found — Carthage is a ghosttown. A real Midwest character that coaxes out the tumbleweeds and the clink of spurs on each boot from the very cowboys that say they don’t rule this neighbourhood.

Let me explain. I insisted that we didn’t buy. I don’t want anything tethering me to the Huck Finn slapstick hillbilly asshole-of-America that is North Carthage. The only rentals are puckered amongst the run-down estate of foreclosures and boarded up windows that is our neighbourhood. Our. I say it like it’s just a totally blasé way of meaning mine. But Nick’s dragged me here, kicking, screaming, humming and... well. I’d like to say I didn’t kick up a fuss. Nick’s mom had cancer. She’s gone now, and he seems to have dug his heels deeper and deeper into the woodloused, rotting foundations of the McMansion we’d found ourselves in.

It’s been two years. I miss the city. I miss New York, with its New York traits and its New York lights. I miss the rats that scuttle along the subway, and the piss that streams itself up the side of each wall under the cityscape. That’s how much I hate it here. I’d rather be pissed on by the homeless drunk that camps out outside each bodega and his clinking bucket of change.

“By all means.” Look around. See what you find. Because I’m telling you, one New Yorker to... whatever the fuck breed that finds himself at my door, you won’t find anything. This house is empty of Amy. It’s all Nick. Here, I’m nothing but the wisp on the wind. Here, I’m The Dunnes. I’m an empty bottle of perfume and two quarts of half-and-half away from being a total fucking stranger to this place. Nick has The Bar. I have Bleecker and a total, irrefutable claim to something better. I don’t want this life. God, will someone just fucking pull me from its grasp before I start saying shit like y’all, and darling.

I open the door — it doesn’t take much convincing. Figure out what it is you want and go on your merry way. Nick thinks I’m making too big a deal of this. I have my journals — what I squirrel away in light of a better day, and a carton of New York memories that look as obsolete as I feel here.

“Anything you’re looking for in particular?” I don’t mention the garage. Or Go’s woodshed. That stays between friends, remember? Don’t fuck this up for me.

[greatconcerns]

Amy, you can teach those to hate me all you want. I don’t care. I am leaving you! 

[deamazed]

@asundered: do you want to play a game?

It’s like summer camp all over again. We were never the Christian Crusader types — Rand and Marybeth made it compellingly clear that our extracurriculars would enforce the secular teachings of the Amazing Amy series without too much of a blip. Tennis camp, mostly. We were real country club magnates.

Did you expect anything less? I play tennis, she beats her coach with three games to one. I pass grade three cello and give it up because the strings keep sticking to my fingers and the practice in cold, empty halls was beginning to get on my nerves, and Amazing Amy first-chairs a fucking orchestra.

“That depends.” 

I know her like I know the back of my hands. Every freckle, every crease, every scar through the knuckle that every boyfriend has ever asked about — that one’s from being pushed down the stairs by a best friend and that one’s from catching her palm on the hob (catching, like it isn’t a calculated nod to getting exactly what she wants. I know the games — I play them too. Sweet, but stupid.)

“What do I win?” Because, reader, if you’ve been keeping up, you’ll know one thing. I don’t lose. I’m not that type of woman. It’s like some ridiculous playback of Annie Get Your Gun. Anything you can do, I can do better. So we play. And we play. And we play. It’s a tussle for control, revenge for the hair-pulling and shin-kicking, and when all’s said and done, it keeps us sane. Cute, right? It’s the kind of sisterly relationship Rand and Marybeth always purported — one day, we won’t be here, and you’ll only have each other. One day, you’ll be best friends. One day, you’ll lean on one another.

I’d rather fucking die than lean.

[deamazed]

GONE GIRL RP PROMPT. from the film.

when i think of my wife, i always think of her head.

the primal questions of a marriage: what are you thinking? how are you feeling?

what have we done to each other?

pour me a bourbon, would you?

what’s up, jitters?

it’s a bad day.

i’m so crazy, stupid happy!

whose beer am i drinking?

what’s your type?

i prefer men who are funny, not ‘funny’.

that’s code for ‘i hate strong women’.

what type are you?

so tell me. who are you?

you know i have to kiss you now.

i would be a fool to let you walk through a sugar storm unkissed.

go home, fuck her brains out, then smack her with your penis: some wood for you, bitch!

you are way too into that cat.

we understand there are concerns about your wife/husband/partner?

i’m not someone who hits the panic button but — it’s weird, right?

you mind if we look around?

it’s our anniversary.

i remember these books.

now you can say you came. and in 10 minutes, we’ll leave.

perfect. time for a quick tour of all my failings.

i love your parents, but they can be assholes.

people want to hear from you.

i thought that’d be embarrassing.

i love having strangers pick at my scabs.

i am here in a strictly journalistic capacity.

you challenge me.

and — fun fact for our readers — you have a world class vagina.

my colleagues inform me that as yet, you are not married. isn’t it time we fixed that?

he’s just playing with his phone. playing, like… tetris.

if this girl doesn’t show up… this could get out of hand.

let’s stay on our toes.

given the scene in the house and given our spike in violent crime of late, we’re going to take this very, very seriously.

sorry. i felt like i was in a law and order episode for a second. bum-BUM.

is she kinda… standoffish?… ivy league?

i have zero reception.

sir, don’t take that tone with me.

stupid, dumb bitch.

he’s always been a misogynist asshole.

everyone told us — and told us, and told us — marriage is hard work.

abandon all hope, ye who enter.

technically, we’re supposed to fuck at the next stop.

we’ve never fucked in a bookstore.

i dragged you into the ladies’ room on our second date.

books, sex, bourbon. life is good.

sometimes i want to punch us in the face, we’re so cute.

i don’t need a lawyer.

everyone knows “complicated” is code for bitch.

just because i don’t love her, doesn’t mean i don’t care about her. i’m really scared.

you want to look like you’ve been up all night.

that’s a weird thing to say.

when you’re upset, you bottle it up. you can seem… angry… like —

great. i’ll try to balance on the exact edge of your emotional razor.

i knew you shouldn’t have moved back here.

we care about her. we love her, and we want her back.

we filed a restraining order.

it’ll help us track her movements before she disappeared - where she went, who she might’ve seen…

maybe i’ll teach you a thing or two.

i think i’ve done a pretty good job.

let’s swear we will never be like them.

we have each other — everything else is background noise.

this is where you say 'everything else is background noise’.

i come by once a week, make sure the place hasn’t burnt down.

picture me: i’m a girl who is very bad. i need to be punished, and by punished, i mean had.

open the door, and look alive.

want to test your marriage for weak spots? add one recession. subtract two jobs.

i felt like i needed to shoot something.

right, i forgot. you can give your parents $879,000 without asking me, but god forbid i buy legend of zelda without your permission.

that’s the basic tenet of a prenup, right?

why are you throwing that in my face again?

i don’t know how to not have a job.

now, i’m beholden to you.

suddenly, i knew everything was about to get worse.

oh look, he’s being a good guy so we can all see him be a good guy.

you really don’t like him.

you have to keep up your strength.

i’m asking you nicely - please delete that photo.

you can’t share that with anyone.

it looked like you were having fun.

this place literally smells like faeces.

i’m going to go benadryl myself to sleep.

i feel like i could disappear.

i’ve been so worried about you.

you gotta pick up when i call you — where the hell have you been?!

can you at least say you love me?

i love you. but, sweetheart, we have to be real careful right now.

you told me i needed to have my own life.

i need you. now. touch me.

did you leave a pair of red panties in my office? lacy?

i’ll have to check my red-panty inventory.

you told me you were going to get a divorce.

never say that out loud again.

i don’t want to fight. i just want to be with you.

he uses me for sex when he wants. otherwise, i don’t exist.

last night, i went from desperate to pathetic.

do our code: no bullshit.

a child is not a hobby.

we could have had this fight four hours ago.

you’re really going to walk out now?! you’re such a coward!

someone should burn this place.

you fucking asshole. you liar. you fucking lied to my fucking face.

you’ve been lying to me for over a year.

god, it’s so fucking small. you’re a liar and a cheat.

i thought writers hated cliches.

wah, boohoo, i got laid off. guess i’ll fuck a 20-year-old.

i can’t figure out what the fuck they mean.

are they supertwat’s?

we’re dealing with a 20-year-old who isn’t sure where she leaves her undies.

free spirit is code for stupid.

just because the guy isn’t weeping, doesn’t mean he’s not hurting.

the hallmark of a sociopath is lack of empathy.

are you trying to tell me that this photo is remotely in the realm of acceptable behaviour?

a picture is worth a thousand words. ever heard that phrase?

i’m so sick of being picked apart by women.

for valentine’s day, i thought i’d buy a gun.

i’m being paranoid. crazy. i’d just sleep better with a gun.

if someone were staging a crime scene, why mop up blood?

a pool of blood and no body suggests homicide.

why have you kept this stuff? it’s like a little box of hate.

you know how hard it is to make a murder case without a body? it’s incredibly difficult. so i want one last thing… i want a body.

sometimes, the way he looks at me? this man of mine may kill me.

i’m so much happier now that i’m dead.

he took my pride and my dignity and my hope and my money.

he took and took from me until i no longer existed. that’s murder. let the punishment fit the crime.

to fake a convincing murder, you have to have discipline.

america loves pregnant women. as if it’s so hard to spread your legs.

you know what is hard? faking a pregnancy.

you need to bleed. you need to clean.

men always use 'cool girl’ as the defining compliment, don’t they?

go ahead! cum on me! i don’t mind, i’m cool girl.

i waited years for the pendulum to swing the other way — for men to read jane austen and make out while we leer.

i will admit: for someone who likes to win, it’s tempting to be the girl every guy wants.

for him, i was willing to try.

i wax-stripped my pussy raw and blew him regularly.

i forged the man of my dreams.

he actually expected me to love him unconditionally.

he doesn’t get to fucking win.

grown-ups work for things. grown-ups pay. grown-ups suffer consequences.

fucking crazy bitch.

she’s framing me for her murder.

you are married to a psychopath.

your problem is just beginning.

does missouri have the death penalty?

as long as you don’t own a python and blast death metal at 4am, we’re gonna be best friends.

that’s the most disgusting thing i’ve ever heard.

are you laughing me out of your building?

this is why i have a $100,000 retainer — because i win unwinnable cases.

so far, this is a he-said-she-said.

i haven’t had a date in almost a decade because if a girl googles me? bye-bye.

if i could make up a girl, this would be the fucking girl.s

he framed you with the ties you wouldn’t wear.

can you imagine being almost 30 years old and never having had anything go wrong for you?

i’m serious. i will not say a word against that girl.

i can’t imagine what she’s got in store for you.

that’s life, baby.

the whole thing just feels… easy. like finding an envelope marked CLUE.

ever heard that phrase - the simplest answer is often correct?

whatever the hell they found, we have to assume it’s very bad.

he’s nice because he wants to fuck you.

i’m not sad. i’m angry.

i was going to kill myself. can you believe that?

why should i die? i’m not the asshole.

it’s a ticking time bomb. you gotta throw yourself on it.

a guy admitting he’s a giant asshole? people love that stuff.

looks like you’ve done a good job.

where’s the money, sweetheart?

you’ve hiding. i don’t know why, and i don’t care.

i don’t think you’ve ever really been hit.

next place, be more careful, okay? lot of people out there worse than us.

every time you look smug or annoyed or tense, i’m going to hit you with a jellybean.

why are you so good to me?

why is it that when i need someone to save me, i always think of you?

oh my god. you little slut.

she’s the girl with the giant cum-on-me tits.

come. you’re staring at ghosts.

seriously, i can’t believe how fucking good you were.

you are so good to me. and i am so exhausted.

you’ll be very safe. i won’t let you get away again.

you scared me. don’t do that. i need to feel safe.

you were never under my thumb.

you are the best person i have ever known.

they disliked me, they liked me, they hated me, and now they love me.

whenever you said something stupid, i thought 'maybe he’s just stupid’. i was wrong.

none of this is mine - none of this was put here by me.

i need some time to think.

that’s the last thing you need.

i’m not going to force myself on you.

i just want you to be you again.

my defence is the truth.

want to play a little true or false?

you thought quinoa was a fish?

you fucking bitch.

it’s an insane story.

don’t blame yourself.

you must’ve bled quite a bit there.

how’d she get the box cutter if she was always tied up?

stop pretending.

i just said what you wanted to hear.

that’s how well you know me! you know me in your marrow.

take off your clothes.

you’re a murderer.

i’m a fighter. i fought my way back to you.

you begged for me to save your life. and i obliged.

the media will destroy you.

give it the night. sleep on it.

was there ever a baby?

if two people love each other and can’t make it work, that’s the real tragedy.

kiss my cheek. now.

you can’t live in the same house as that spider.

mess with it, they’ll come looking for blood.

we had the national spotlight on us, and we stained the rug.

i swear to god, you two are the most fucked-up people i’ve ever known. and i specialise in fucked up.

i’m the definition of 'at risk’.

remember: don’t turn your back.

i’d never hurt you. i do need you to participate though. that’s fair, right?

tell the truth and shame the devil.

fuck it. let everyone take sides.

i love tests.

we are toxic. we complete each other in the sickest possible way.

you think you could ever be with a nice, normal woman?

i complete you. i’m the only one who can.

stay with me and i will make you happy. you know i can. i’ve killed for you.

you’re breaking my heart.

what have we done to each other? what will we do?

[deamazed]

fakedsciences​.

Kieran usually likes them young. 

He likes when they still care what their parents think — or, better yet, when their parents are gone or dead. He likes when they talk about what they learned in undergrad and how their friends make them feel. He doesn’t like divorcees, and marriage usually requires a certain age, a certain something. Leaving it — a certain something else. But he doesn’t mind when they’re already taken. He doesn’t mind that at all.

But he also likes them pathetic, desperate, forlorn. He likes Amy’s lipstick, likes how it’s smudged a little bit over the actual edge of her lips. He likes the soft look in her eye (he’s yet to see it occasionally sharpen). He likes when their goals aren’t attainable or when they’ve already been slighted, just a little, by life. Optimism and naivety aren’t bad, but it’s easier when something’s already been a little broken in by someone else. 

Kieran doesn’t really think like this so explicitly. God, he doesn’t fancy himself a fucking monster. He is just a nice man from Ireland, with a nice Irish accent, who likes a nice drink at a half-decent bar. He likes making friends and surrounding himself with likeminded people (who will fuck him whenever the mood strikes). 

“What gives? Has something got to give, now?” His accent works with women no matter their age. He plays it up on first meetings, likes when people ask him questions about where he’s from. He is good at playing vague and creating a reality you want to know more about, want to be apart of.

“I just thought I’d like to talk to you a bit. And I was deeply, deeply concerned that no one had ever complimented you before on your nose. Which is adorable, and perfect, and cute, as I have said already. If I could paint your picture, I would have asked already. So, there.”

At risk of this sounding like just another journal entry in just another woman’s pathetic, dry-hump life, dear diary. Today I got hit on by a nice man in a shitty bar. Okay, I can’t even pretend. I won’t make you sit through reading that. It’s hard to fake — the simper, the lip-bite, the giggling, giddy glee that pushes your tits out and sends out the fuck-me-pheremones, but it’s easier than the ghost I’ve become of late.

Jesus, I sound fucking pathetic. Average. Dumb. I hate that word. Average. Like I’ve been slapped with a C+ and a could do better in red ink. Nick and I had another fight. It sounds so banal, to even think about — Nick didn’t empty the trash again. Nick left his socks on the floor in the bedroom again. Nick left beard hair clogging up the drain again. I’ve become someone that I had no hand in becoming — Average Amy. Not quite the same ring to it.

“Has anyone ever told you, you are a very brave man?” 

My parents would umm and aah about my next moves. I think they miss me, deep down — deep down in a way that can be smothered with tennis in the Hamptons and cocktails by the beach. In debt my fucking ass.

I have spent years giving parts of myself away. Amazing Amy, one step ahead. Naughty Nick... eh. Disappointing. Here I am, world! I am officially the stupid, hormonal, empty fucking husk that you see before you! Doesn’t it make you sick? I’m a fucking sock that my Darling Husband pumps his cum into once every month and thinks I can’t smell whatever whore he’s fucking on the side each time he stumbles into bed past midnight.

“So... does the brave, bad artist have a name?” I think, deep down, I know this makes me a hypocrite. But Nick leaves panties hanging out of his jeans (which he leaves on the floor, might I remind you) and I’m playing house. Fuck him. He doesn’t get to have it all.

[deamazed]

Itʼs rather extreme, framing your husband for your murder. I want you to know I know that.

[deamazed]

CHARACTER FLAWS

BOLD   —  character trait.

ITALIC   —  situational.

absent-minded | abusive | addict | adrenaline junkie | aggressive | aimless | alcoholic | anxious | arrogant | audacious | bad liar | bigmouth | bigot | blindly loyal | blunt | callous | childish | chronic heroism | cheater | clingy | clumsy | cocky | codependent | competitive | corrupt | cowardly | cruel | cynical | delinquent | delusional | dependent | depressed | deranged | disloyal | ditzy | egotistical | envious | erratic | fickle | finicky | fixated | flaky | frail | fraudulent | foul mouthed | guilt complex | gloomy | gluttonous | gossiper | gruff | GRUDGE-HOLDING | gullible | hedonistic | humorless | hypochondriac | hypocritical | idealist | idiotic | ignorant | immature | impatient | incompetent | indecisive | insecure | insensitive | lazy | lewd | liar | lustful |  manipulative | masochistic | meddlesome | melodramatic | money-loving | moody | naive | nervous | nosy | ornery | overprotective | overly sensitive | paranoid | passive-aggressive | perfectionist | pessimist | petty | power-hungry | proud | possessive | pushover | reckless | reclusive | remorseless | rigorous | sadistic | sarcastic | senile | selfish | self-destructive | shallow | sociopathic | sore loser | spineless | spiteful | spoiled | stubborn | suspicious | tactless | temperamental | timid | thief | tone-deaf | traitorous | unathletic | ungracious | unlucky | unsophisticated | untrustworthy | vain | withdrawn | workaholic.

TAGGED BY: @jokethur​. TAGGING: no one. do it anyway x

[deamazed]

@fakedsciences​ / kieran: you have a very pretty nose. 

Well, I’ll be damned. A housewife walks into a bar... well, I haven’t quite come up with the punchline yet. But the point still stands. (God, is that all I am now? A housewife?) The recession’s been tough (!), I can’t find the work (!). For a while, I didn’t have to, with a fat trust fund and two phD parents to fall back on, until that rug was pulled out from under me. And now, I’m lamenting over a glass of eight-dollar rosé with one ice cube and the remains of a lipstick stain on its side. Whore red is not my shade.

I’ve become everything I fucking despise.

“And you are very charming.” Does this make me a cougar? Don’t look at me like that. I’m not my husband. But I am bored. (Looking like me, you’re used to this kind of attention. It’s more nice tits, or what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this, but the creativity is appreciated. 

“So what gives?” He reminds me of Nick, five years ago. Ambitious. Clever. Cool. God, my husband was so fucking cool. And I wanted to be that for him! I wanted to be cool, like that’s the best thing in the world. I wanted him to look at me and think, yeah. That’s my cool wife. She doesn’t moan. She doesn’t nag. She loves me, and I love her, and that’s all we need in the world. The world has a way of getting in the middle of that, and a U-haul and three hours of unpacking later, and. Well. I think I left my heart in New York.

That’s a saying, right? I left my heart in [fill in the blank]. It’s like a bad tourist gimmick sold on the side of the street. It’s a New York delicacy, next to pastrami and rye, and right behind the I HEART NYC t-shirts made from polyester and child labour.

But, in the most eloquent of terms, I mean this: Every ounce of adoration, love, and respect I once felt for Nick is still wrapped in packing tape in the corner of our NY apartment.

So why not?

A housewife walks into a bar... (Have you noticed that all wife jokes include sandwiches, cleaning, or kitchens?)

[deamazed]

@asundered / nick: [ coat ]  your muse holds mine’s coat out for them while they put it on.

This is a straitjacket. I feel like I’m being tossed out like a piece of old furniture. Half of me’s still in the apartment, overlooking the city in the bowels of a cold, empty bedroom. He’s taken me, trussed up like a Christmas ham, away from the very lifeblood I’ve lived and loved all my life, and packed me off like some fucking UPS man. Slap a stamp on it, and watch it get crushed and crumpled from one end of America to the other. You might think I’m dramatic — of course we’ll move to the armpit of the country and support your family though this time. I’m game. I was always game. He didn’t even have to say the word, and I was packing up my trinkets. (Trinkets, because that’s all I have now. A box in the corner of a U-haul that the rest of my soul can die in. Hm. I take your point. Dramatic.) But it’s not like that.

He barely looks at me as we leave. I can’t tell if it’s guilt, or don’t look at me like that, Amy. He defrauds the entire fucking idea by pretending it’s our next big adventure. The rest is background noise. But when you start fading into the background along with the linens I don’t think he ever liked... that’s the breaking point. That’s the thin line between husband and wife and... master and his bitch.

He wraps me up, calm, cool, and barely leaves me standing there, in the midst of our entire lives being plucked up, each string at a time, from our New York lives. He’s going to make me a fucking hillbilly. 

Nick Dunne has broken my heart.

I’m trying not to be a bitch. I am. But I’m no Georgia Peach. (He’d correct me there — ah ah ah, Amy. We’re not going to the south. It’s the Midwest, as he likes to remind me of how my geographical inconsistencies are one of the other things he’d like to leave behind in Manhattan. It’s not The South with a capital S, but it’s damn near close enough. I Google Mapped it before we came outside. Middle-of-fucking-nowhere America. Crime rates are crawling up like the spider up my neck and circling like the goddamn horseflies. Yee-fucking-haw.)

“Are you ready?” I love my husband, I love my husband, I love my husband. I will support him through anything. I will feed him, and cherish him, and fuck him til he can’t stand up, and I’ll put on my best smile and take my deepest breath and march my way down to the firing squad.

“It’s not forever, right?”

[deamazed]

Itʼs rather extreme, framing your husband for your murder. I want you to know I know that.