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I lowered the gun but didn’t holster it. Not just yet. She could turn out to be psychotic. Or a door-to-door salesperson.

Darynda Jones

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Darynda Jones
Age: 59
Author
Novelist
Writer
Friona
Texas
Didn
Salesperson
Lowered
Psychotic
Gun
Door
Doors
Turn
Turns
Holster

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He said you sparkle like a newborn galaxy and have more attitude than a rich kid with his daddy's Porsche.
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Before I tell you, I have to know three things, I said. Okay. One, are you sitting down? Yes. Two, are you mentally stable? More than you'll ever be. Well, that was uncalled for. And three, how do you spell schizophrenia? What does that have to do with anything? Nothing. I just wanted to see if you'd tell me.
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I know, he said in almost bored contemplation. My manners suck. I like to chalk it up to a dissatisfying childhood. I'd chalk it up to that narcissistic personality disorder laces with a smidgen of schizophrenia. Your mother would be proud.
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Where you just possessed? Cookie asked after a long moment, awe softening her voice. 'Cause let me tell you, sweetheart, if that was possession, I'm selling my soul.
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You’re just using me for my body.” “You don’t have a body,” I’d remind him. “Throw that in my face.” “Technically, you don’t have a face either.
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There comes a moment when you know you just aren't going to do anything esle productive for the rest of the day.-T-Shirt
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“Time-out,” I said... He twisted his hand around and wound his fingers into mine. “You‘re putting me in time-out?” “Yes,” I said as a shaky sigh slid through my lips. “If I don't go, do I get a spanking?”
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Hello? I said, because Charley's House of Pasties seemed wrong.
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Apparently, this really was Kill Charley Davidson Week. Or at least Horribly Maim Her.... It would probably never get government recognition, though, destined to be underappreciated like Halloween or Thesaurus Day.
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Reyes leaned back against the bar, crossed his arms over his chest, and studied me from beneath those same ridiculously long lashes. Men and their freaking lashes. It was so unfair. Like the exorbitant cost of designer shoes. Or world hunger.
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It isn’t the fall that will kill you, but the sudden stop.
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I climbed into Misery and called Uncle Bob. “We hooking up?” “Why does everything out of your mouth make me sound incestuous?” “Um, I wasn’t aware that it did. Perhaps you have a guilty conscience.” “Charley.” “Is there something you need to get off your chest? Besides that skank I saw you with the other day?
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I did that thing where you scratch your eyebrow and flip someone off at the same time. I'm good at multitasking like that.
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My prodding me didn't elicit a reaction. His unseeing eyes stared straight through me. Which was odd. He'd seemed so sane huddled in Cookie's trunk.
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Have you slept yet?' 'Sure. I took a power nap on the way over.' 'Didn't you drive there?' 'Yeah. Other drviers kept waking me up. Car horns should be illegal.' - Charley & Cookie
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Want coffee? I asked, as I headed that way. It's three thirty in the morning. Okay. Want coffee?
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Mistakes were made. Others were blamed.
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God I loved Sammy. I’d considered marrying him, but his wife got upset when I asked for his hand.
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I could hardly be responsible for my actions when everyone around me gave me every opportunity to sink to their low expectations.
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Does Uncle Bob have anything? I heard he has an STD. I mean on the women. Oh, I have no idea if they have any STDs.
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