And with her first sentence, Gillian Flynn basically dares me not to devour this book in one sitting. (It’s a standalone short story, so it’s only 62 pages, but still.) Also, I am terrible at handjobs, because they put the “dick” in “ridiculous.” You HAVE hands. I have a mouth. It’s WAY better. My hands are like my mouth’s slacker interns — they help my mouth along and fetch it coffee and stuff, but we don’t trust them with the really important projects.
“Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.”
— Gone Girl
I just finished reading Gone Girl, and feel as though I should be more unsettled about the many small ways in which the male protagonist — a suspect in his wife’s disappearance — reminds me of two different men I’ve known.
One in a sweet, “Aw, be my husband!” way, and another in a “Grow the fuck up and use your words, you goddamn man-child” way.
I’m seeing the movie this weekend and am pretty sure Affleck will be perfect casting. Super dreamy, but yeah, I do instinctively just want to punch him in his chin dimple. Well done, Hollywood.
“I often don’t say things out loud, even when I should. I contain and compartmentalize to a disturbing degree: In my belly-basement are hundreds of bottles of rage, despair, fear, but you’d never guess from looking at me.”
— Gone Girl