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Mutilated corpses with a chance of afternoon showers. I got dressed and went to work.

Jeff Lindsay

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Jeff Lindsay
Age: 72
Born: 1952
Born: July 14
Novelist
Playwright
Writer
Miami
Florida
Jeffry P. Freundlich
Jeffry P. Lindsay
Afternoon
Went
Chance
Work
Mutilated
Corpses
Showers
Dressed

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Perhaps because I'll never be one, humans are interesting to me.
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It was such an unexpected and genuine smile that if I only had a soul I'm sure I would have felt quite guilty.
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...my conscience has the same hard reality as a unicorn.
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...being torn apart by far too many loyalties that could not possibly live together in the same brain.
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I'm a very neat monster.
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I really am guilty, of many somethings, all of them lethal and very enjoyable and technically not quite legal.
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And once again I found myself wondering, as I drifted off to stunned and unbelieving sleep:How do these terrible things always happen to me?
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I often find myself in situations where it seems to me like everyone else has read the instruction book
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you can’t use logic on human behavior.
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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.
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I am unlovable...I have tried to involve myself in other people, in relationships, and even - in my sillier moments - in love. But it doesn't work. Something in me is broken or missing and sooner or later the other person catches me Acting or one of Those Nights comes along.
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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.
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But what could I do? Be stupid for a while? I wasn't sure I knew how, even after so many years of careful observation.
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Or was he saying, Hi! Wanna play? And I did. Of course I did.
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...she opened the door very slowly and carefully, half hiding behind it, as if badly frightened of what might be waiting for her on the other side. And considering that it was me waiting, this showed rare common sense.
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As I've said, freedom is really an illusion. Anytime we think we have a real choice, it just means we haven't seen the shotgun aimed at our navel.
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Dying makes everyone weaker, subject to painful insight, and not always insight into any kind of special truth - it's just the approaching end that makes people want to believe they are seeing something in the line of a great revelation.
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Was insanity really easier to accept than unconsciousness?
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And here I always thought morality was useless.
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