Mary Nat Cassidy Quotes

Abuse is its own kind of reincarnation, isn’t it? We become the ones who made us.

For all her grumbling, she actually loves being a woman, pains and all. She just wishes she’d been born into a world that let those pains earn a little goddamn space.

But, more than that, my mom knew the value of horror as a genre. She knew there were distinct benefits to be gained by spending time with our fears, getting to know them personally.

Memory is a mansion, and dreams are the spaces between its walls

Because the past is like the moon, isn’t it? It’s always there, but it shifts, it’s never the same when you revisit it.

Boys get to keep that confidence [as they age], I think; girls have to give it back like it never really belonged to them.

Besides, you know another word for unique? Crazy. I hate that word. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the worst word you can call a woman. No other C-word comes close.

Where would she be as a grown-up? Would she still have a story?

Because life is all about cycles. And life, with its deadly surprises and unassuming horrors, with its mysteries and miseries, just goes on and on and

Yeah, I keep a roll of hundreds up my snatch while I sleep; it’s good for my lower back.

So much misery in the world just to give a few cruel men a quick spurt.

Getting old is indignity upon indignity—a race to obsolescence between body and mind.

Who am I? I am just a story written in present tense. We all are. We are never finished.

It’s always the quiet ones,” the cliché goes. And like many clichés, there’s some truth to it. But sometimes I wonder: what comes first? Do those “quiet ones” become capable of committing an atrocity because they’re shunned? Or are they shunned because there’s already a sense of what they’re capable of? —Special Agent Peter Arliss, In the Dark with the Devil: One Heroic FBI Agent’s Ground Zero Account of the Arroyo Easter Massacre

But Mary is about bullying. The societal kind, the kind we all grow up into and begin to accept because It’s Just the Way Things Are. It’s about loneliness and isolation and … well, you’ll see.

It’s a challenging, fascinating, nuanced, vital biological rite of passage and, hell, I very much agree with Mary when she makes her offhand comment about how sad it is we don’t have a cultural celebration for middle age. A second puberty? This time while navigating bills and adult responsibilities and relationships? That shit’s intense, and it deserves some goddamn honor and respect.

I could have been a Stalin But I was born with Nadia’s body

feel like I’m being tongue-fucked by a German shepherd with a brain injury.

They think they’re all King Shit of Fart Mountain. I wouldn’t be surprised if their family tree was a straight line.

Because life is all about cycles. And life, with its deadly surprises and unassuming horrors, with its mysteries and miseries, just goes on and on and

Someone is laughing, and it’s only when more air whoops into my lungs that I realize it’s me. This is suddenly the funniest thing that’s ever happened to me, tackling a stranger in the moonlight.

How beautiful is the night air! This placid dryness. This un-insistent chill. It’s made for naked skin and revelations.

Beginnings are hard. Sometimes you can’t tell if something is actually Beginning or if you’re just sleep deprived.

I realize too late I still had a Loved One in my hand, just in time to watch her fly up and out of my grip.

I ain’t gonna spend my final hours on my knees sucking dick.

The feelings start to crescendo, but I can sense myself, my real self, there, waiting to be knitted back together. Yes! I can do this! I feel a moment of preemptive triumph

I am life and I am alive, I tell the night sky. And life, with all its Changes and joys, with all its cycles and surprises, goes on. And on.

Because life is all about cycles.

Like the world had just … moved on without me.

There’s a corpse in the bathtub.

Why am I so cold?

Maybe a brick fell on him. Maybe again and again. Maybe he’ll shut up from now on.

Just to be seen. Just to be noticed. When, if ever, will it be your turn?

I’m sorry,

Oh my God, shut up!

I need to get back to the blue book.

Her fault for getting old.

Who knew the hicks and rubes in this town would make him king as long as he gave them permission to blow off a little steam. That’s my legacy. You ask me if I’m a real doctor? If the Cross House is a real hospital? It is, but fuck all that. What you really tried to mess with? Is a king.

Just because it’s in your head doesn’t mean it’s not real,

The only way to prove you haven’t served your use is to endeavor to stay as useful as possible, even to a system that hates you.

memory is like a mansion. Full of rooms and hallways and closets.

That’s the problem with these journals: they’re too nice. They put too much pressure on whatever you write to be worthy. And, as I’m so often reminded in my darkest thoughts, worthy is not something I’ve ever been used to thinking I am.

She was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world. —Kate Chopin, The Awakening

(Memory is a mansion, and dreams are the spaces between its walls.)

When I was little, one of my favorite activities was strolling up and down the Horror section of our local video store, looking at all the covers and scaring myself silly.

Poor Death! Such a sad, small, silly thing. Death never wins. There is always more life. Always.

Most canned laughter on sitcoms is made up of dead people. I forget where I learned that. The sound cues were recorded decades and decades ago. Most everyone in that audience would be dead by now. But they're still laughing at the antics of the living. Isn't life a funny thing? Ghosts must find us hilarious.

For all her grumbling, she actually loves being a woman, pains and all. She just wishes she'd been born into a world that let those pains earn a little goddamn space.

You wanna know the one thing that really pisses me off?” I whip my head around to see who’s speaking and, standing in the bottomless shadows of the hallway by the bathroom door, is a small, squat silhouette. Its voice is gravelly, low, and poisonous. Smilingly hateful. Even though it’s rendered almost featureless by the gloom, I can still make out the outline of a fake flower in its hair. “The fact that I had a goddamn genuine paranormal entity in my house and you never fucking told me.

When I was a little girl my uncle Was a veterinarian And I was a little girl who loved animals I had a cat and a dog And once I asked my uncle (who was a veterinarian) Why does my dog love belly rubs But they make my cat attack? I showed him scratches up and down my arms. He said the thing about cats you have to understand Is they are predator and prey They can hunt and pounce and kill But they’re small and light and probably Delicious So they take some things very very seriously I was a little girl when he said this But when I became a woman in this world I understood what he meant.