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Really now: If you can't get me my newspaper on time, how can you expect me to refrain from killing people?

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
Newspaper
Newspapers
Killing
Expect
Really
Time
People
Refrain

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This was just no fun. I wanted my brain back.
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I nodded with genuine synthetic sympathy.
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What do you want a clock for?” “To find out what time it is,” I said. “I think that’s the usual purpose.
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In its own way the kiss had been an act of murder.
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I know family comes first, but shouldn't that mean after breakfast?
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And as we should all know by now, anytime you predict failure you have an excellent chance of being right.
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IN MY LIFELONG STUDY OF HUMAN BEINGS, I HAVE FOUND that no matter how hard they might try, they have found no way yet to prevent the arrival of Monday morning. And they do try, of course, but Monday always comes, and all the drones have to scuttle back to their dreary workaday lives of meaningless toil and suffering.
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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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Life teaches us that human thought almost never walks hand in hand with logic, and it is usually counterproductive to raise the point.
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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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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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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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When faced with people who have very limited conversational skills and no apparent desire to cultivate any it's always easier to simply go along.
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I'm quite sure more people fake an awful lot of everyday human contact. I just fake all of it. --Dexter
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Because I am an inhuman monster, I tend to be logical.
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For the first time I could remember, I felt weak, woozy and stupid— like a human-being. Like a very small and helpless human-being.
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What to wear? I could think of no guidelines on what we were wearing this season to a party forced on you to celebrate an unwanted engagement that might turn into a violent confrontation with a vengeful maniac. Clearly brown shoes were out, but beyond that nothing really seemed de rigueur.
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Was insanity really easier to accept than unconsciousness?
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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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I rose to my knees, mouth dry and heart pounding, and paused to finger a rip in my beautiful Dacron bowling shirt. I pushed my fingertip through the hole and wiggled it at myself. Hello, Dexter, where are you going? Hello, Mr. Finger. I don't know, but I'm almost there. I hear my friends calling.
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