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A friend is someone who knows where all your bodies are buried. Because they're the ones who helped you put them there. And sometimes, if you're really lucky, they help you dig them back up.

Jenny Lawson

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Jenny Lawson
Age: 50
Born: 1973
Born: December 29
Author
Journalist
Jennifer Lawson
Ones
Help
Helping
Someone
Buried
Body
Helped
Back
Bodies
Sometimes
Lucky
Really
Friend

More quotes by Jenny Lawson

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The first thing I do when I come home is check the refrigerator for cats because I'm convinced that if one dies, my husband will hide it in there because I don't cook and so I won't see it. I do drink Cokes, though ,so technically he should hide the corpse in the oven. And now I need to start checking the oven.
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High School Is Life’s Way of Giving You a Record Low to Judge the Rest of Your Life By)
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I am the Wizard of Oz of housewives (in that I am both Great and Terrible and because I sometimes hide behind the curtains
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When I was little, my father used to sell guns and ammo at a sporting goods store, but I always told everyone he was an arms dealer, because it sounded more exciting.
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Have you ever been homesick for someplace that doesn't actually exist anymore? Someplace that exists only in your mind?
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A house should look lived in, and I consider it clean as long as I don't stick to it and it doesn't give me cholera.
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In short? It is exhausting being me. Pretending to be normal is draining and requires amazing amounts of energy and Xanax.
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Even at age 10, I already knew that I was different from most people. My anxiety disorder was still years from being diagnosed, but it affected me quite deeply. I was too afraid to speak out in class, too nervous to make real friends.
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Grandpa did everything at his own pace, a speed that my sister and I referred to as 'when snails attack.' ... My grandparents' house was only about ten miles from ours, but the ride there would necessitate sandwiches packed for the trip, and several books to keep us occupied.
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When Hailey was born my first thought was that I needed a drink and that hospitals should have bars in them.
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...and whenever I had menstral cramps, I could just pretend that Voldemort was close.
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Writing is my therapy. In addition to my real therapy. God knows where I'd be without it. I'd probably still be at my last job, working in HR at a religious organization. I was horribly miscast.
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Then I yelled through his door, It's an anniversary gift for you, asshole. Two whole weeks early. FIFTEEN YEARS IS BIG METAL CHICKENS.
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Because you are defined not by life's imperfect moments, but by your reaction to them. And because there is joy in embracing - rather than running from - the utter absurdity of life.
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But really, what else are you going to talk about in line at the liquor store? Childhood trauma seems like the natural choice, since it’s the reason why most of us are in line there to begin with.
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I was having problems with depression and anxiety disorder, and it felt like not blogging about it was creating a false history. When I did finally share the problems I was having, I was shocked - not only by the support that was given to me, but also by the incredible amount of people who admitted they struggled with the same thing.
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When you're really crazy you don't question it. Being aware of my behaviors stops them. Sure, a lot of people pick their cuticles, but how many people cut big parts of their skin off? It's unfair because I have been judged.
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When I was in junior high I read a lot of Danielle Steele. So I always assumed that the day I got engaged I'd be naked, covered in rose petals, and sleeping with the brother of the man who'd kidnapped me.
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Every time I get scared or feel like I'm not going to be good enough at something, I say that mantra to myself. Pretend you're good at it.
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In fact almost everyone in my yearbook wrote the same thing to me: To weird girl, you're nice. I didn't think it was bad. When I showed my mother she said, Everyone is different. Being weird became my tool. I'm weird that's who I am. It was my coping badge.
Jenny Lawson