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Image of the quote is loading... SaveSave Love makes you want to be a better man—right, right. But maybe love, real love, also gives you permission to just be the man you are. - Quote by Gillian Flynn

Love makes you want to be a better man—right, right. But maybe love, real love, also gives you permission to just be the man you are.

Gillian Flynn
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She blew more smoke toward me, a lazy game of cancer catch.
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Blame the economy, blame bad luck, blame my parents, blame your parents, blame the Internet, blame people who use the Internet.
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Lately, I've been leaning towards kindness.- Camille Preaker
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I know a little bit about trying to do the right thing and fucking up completely." I added."You talking about mom?" Ben said"I was talking about me.""You could have been talking about all of us. Ben pressed his hand against the glass and my brother and I matched palms.
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The Amy of today was abrasive enough to want to hurt, sometimes. I speak specifically of the Amy of today, who was only remotely like the woman I fell in love with. It had been an awful fairy-tale reverse transformation. Over just a few years, the old Amy, the girl of the big laugh and the east ways, literally shed herself, a pile of skin and soul on the floor, and out stepped this new, brittle, bitter Amy. My wife was no longer my wife but a razor-wire knot daring me to unloop her, and I was not up to the job with my thick, numb, nervous fingers. Country fingers. Flyover fingers untrained in the intricate, dangerous work of solving Amy. When I'd hold up the bloody stumps, she'd sigh and turn to her secret mental notebook on which she tallied all my deficiencies, forever noting disappointments, frailties, shortcomings. My old Amy, damn, she was fun. She was fun. She made me laugh. I'd forgotten that. And she laughed, From the bottom of her throat, from right behind that small finger-shaped hollow, which is the best place to laugh from. She released her grievances like handfuls of birdseed: They are there, and they are gone.
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I always feel sad for the girl that I was, because it never occurred to me that my mother might comfort me. She has never told me she loved me, and I never assumed she did. She tended to me. She administrated me.
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It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I’m not a real person and neither is anyone else.
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Everyone who keeps a secret, itches to tell it.
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