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I sighed as comforting as it may be to some of us, sarcasm, like youth, is wasted on the young.

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
Sighed
Sarcasm
Comforting
Wasted
Youth
Young
May
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No big deal. We all have blood in us, the trick is keeping it inside.
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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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It happens incompetence is rewarded more often than not.
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And then more quiet, silence so deep it almost drowned out the roar of the night music that pounded away in my secret self.
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I had killed our careful relationship by driving my tongue through its heart and pushing it off a cliff.
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you can’t use logic on human behavior.
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Feeling - what authentic human fun!
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But as I have noticed on more than one occaision, life itself is unfair, and there is no complaint department, so we might as well accept things the way they happen, clean up the mess, and move on.
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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 of course, there's no rest for the wicked, which I certainly am as I said, no rest for the wicked.
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Perhaps because I'll never be one, humans are interesting to me.
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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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Really now: If you can't get me my newspaper on time, how can you expect me to refrain from killing people?
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Killing makes me feel good.
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Of course it was a terrible thing, and the world would be a much better place without someone in it who could do that, but did that mean we had to miss lunch?
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A reasonable being might think that he and I could find some common ground have a cup of coffee and compare our Passengers, exchange trade talk and chitchat about dismemberment techniques. But no: Doakes wanted me dead. And I found it difficult to share his point of view.
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In its own way the kiss had been an act of murder.
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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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