- Ottessa Moshfegh
- My last highlight
- Number of highlights
“I’ll see you,” she said, kissing Dad in his chair. I never saw her again.
Cold as it was in my room in the attic, I felt there was nothing to be gained by getting out of bed.
With the laxatives, my movements were torrential, oceanic, as though all of my insides had melted and were now gushing out, a sludge that stank distinctly of chemicals and which, when it was all out, I half expected to breach the rim of the toilet bowl.
“Quiet!” yelled my father when the kettle started its high whine. “At this hour?” he mumbled, eyelids dragging open, wincing at the sunshine. “Pull the blinds,” he said. “Dammit, Eileen.” There were no blinds. He’d taken the old curtains down years earlier, claiming the shadows they made distracted him from what was real.
Fashion’s for the fools, I know now, but I’ve learned that it’s good to be foolish from time to time.
she seemed to have retreated to some far-off place in her mind, leaving just the surface of herself to be with me.
Those people with perfect houses are simply obsessed with death. A house that is so well maintained, furnished with good-looking furniture of high quality, decorated tastefully, everything in its place, becomes a living tomb. People truly engaged in life have messy houses.
“Well, aren’t you a peach,” she said. She had an odd way about her. She seemed tense and fake, but I liked what she was saying. “That was so thoughtful.” She pulled a cigarette from the pocket of her stained, white terrycloth bathrobe, which she wore over her clothes like a housecoat.
The dress was heavy, like the hide of a strange animal.
A woman in a bright red parka loped by me, pulled by a pair of German shepherds as though on a sled. I didn’t like dogs.
She had flat, silvery hair and a freckled forehead that gave her a sort of boiled and sick look, like a pickled egg. I really didn’t like her.
I loved a crying man—a weakness which led me into countless affairs with whiners and depressives. I
There’s nothing I detest more than men with happy childhoods.
Rebecca lit my cigarette with a flourish of the wrist. That thrilled me. When she lit her own, she tilted her head like a thoughtful bird, sucking in her cheeks just slightly.
I had a moderate tolerance for alcohol, but an extreme thirst for it once I got started.
“This one’s a good kid,” Sandy affirmed, nodding. He was an idiot.
Bitterly is the best way to describe the manner in which she displayed her affections.
but if ever my father felt he was at risk for being pitied, he attacked me with an insult aimed precisely at my self-esteem.
I was nervous. It had been a long time since I’d gone any place I wanted to
At last she looked me in the eyes and frowned. “I’m a crummy hostess,” she sighed. “Don’t be silly,” I told her. “You should see where I live.”