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Did you hear? he asked. They found another body around nine this morning. It's the Ripper, definitely. Good morning, I replied. Morning. Listen to this. The second victim.
Maureen Johnson
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Maureen Johnson
Age: 51
Born: 1973
Born: February 16
Author
Novelist
Writer
Philadelphia
Pennsylvania
Hear
Ripper
Morning
Replied
Found
Victim
Another
Nine
Around
Definitely
Body
Asked
Good
Listen
Second
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Irony is the word I forget the meaning of immediately after I look it up, but I kind of feel like I live in a constant state of it.
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Oh my God! said one of the Ambers. Is this not the worst trip ever? Did you see the snow? She was a sharp one, this Amber. What would she notice next? The train? The moon? The hilarious vagaries of human existence? Her own head?
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New start or not, there was a line to be drawn, and that line was singing musicals to yourself as serious psychological motivation.
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You can never visit the same place twice. Each time, it's a different story. By the very act of coming back, you wipe out what came before.
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Money is for doing things, my love. Don't sit on it like a hen sits on an egg. It doesn't hatch. I should know. I've made enough of it.
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Spicy food and I have a close relationship—an obsessive one, in fact. If it’s spicy, I want it. I want to sweat and shake and go half blind from the searing pain . . . which, now that I put it that way, seems really suggestive. But spicy stuff is addictive. That’s a known fact of science.
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Something about her suggested that her leisure activities included wrestling large woodland animals and banging bricks together.
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I have no phobias. Phobias are irrational. My fears are rational and CAREFULLY CULTIVATED, like roses.
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When I worked in theater, I was always writing things on Post-it Notes and sticking them on screens or desks. Twitter has given me a way of continuing to post those notes, only a lot of other people see them, too.
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Sometimes artist like to catch themselves looking out, let the world see them for once. It's a signature. This one is a very bold one. But this is also a witnessing. We want to remember, and we want to be remembered. That's why we paint.
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No one hid their interest when I walked into the room. I'm not sure if it was the news about Boo or my general appearance. At home, people would have asked. People would have been crawling all over me for information. At Wexford, they seemed to extract what they wanted to know by covert staring.
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Fear can't hurt you, she said. When it washes over you, give it no power. It's a snake with no venom. Remember that. That knowledge can save you.
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I try to shake it loose-but these ideas, they cling. It's like I'm shackled to them with an iron chain. They rattle along behind me, dragging against the ground, always reminding me of their presence.
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She firmly held the theory that everyone gets at least one very stupid superpower.
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Tired, but not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.
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Kissing is something that makes up for a lot of other crap you have to put up with...It can be confusing and weird and awkward, but sometimes it just makes you melt and forget everything that is going on.
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I've heard people on panels say, 'You must have a Web site. You need to tweet. Repeat the title of your book constantly,' and I just want to say, 'Shut up. Everything you're saying is wrong.' People will know instantly if your only motivation for tweeting is to sell books.
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I like to talk. Talking is kind of my thing. If talking had been a sport option at Wexford, I would have been captain. But sports always have to involve running, jumping, or swinging your arms around. You don’t get PE points for the smooth and rapid movement of the jaw.
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Some nutter's gone and pulled a Jack the Ripper.
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I feel warm and reassured, I whispered. He's like Santa.
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