herr god, herr lucifer:

in a book,   this would be the turning point.    the  big  magical  moment where the protagonist overcomes evil   &   triumphs the bastards!    things are different in this story,   though.    i’m making sure of it because,   guess what!    this is my story!    nick dunne is no longer  allowed  to be a star in this story.    he’s used me enough   ;   he’s used me for my money,   my pride,   my pussy,   everything i had to  offer  &   now,   i’m going to leave him with a parting gift.    a prison cell   &   an electric chair with his name scribbled across it.    it’s a process,   but it’s bound to happen.    it has to happen.    if i’m going to frame my husband for my murder,   i need a list.    one of the items on that list is for friends to leak things to the media.    what do you do if you don’t have friends?    you make friends with the  dumb  idiot  across the way.    you make him cry for you   &   stare at you as if you’re the pitiful,   dumb whore of a wife that you portray yourself to be.    men have egos   &   they jerk off to the content i’m about to provide to  him.    so when my husband goes off to work at the bar that  i  bought him,   i put my plan into effect.    i find myself walking across the street   &   taking the adventure to  him   ;   the neighbor across the street who is going to be my friend,   whether he likes it  or  not.    arms crossed tightly over my chest,   a sign of insecurity   &   potential anxiety,    a smile spreads across my face.    

dear diary,   do you want to hear a story  before  lance nicholas dunne had came into my life   &   murdered me from head to toe?    no?   well,   you’re going to get one anyway.    i can hear the tumbleweed panning across your brain like we’ve just stepped out of an old western movie,   as if you’re ready to draw your gun out   &   shoot me on the spot   —   it’s laughable.    i know,   you want the  nick   &   amy  story,   but to hear that,   you need to know a little about me!    this is  my  story   &    to understand everything,   my dear readers,   we need to go back to new york city!    to before i was amy elliott-dunne:   wife to nick dunne,   rape victim   &   kidnapping survivor of a college boyfriend-turned-stalker,   role model to feminists across the  united  states   &   a sign women need to  destroy  the  patriarchy.    instead,   i’m  amazing  amy,   poster child to kids across the globe who is  relatable  to everyone,   daughter to rand   &   marybeth elliott who capitalized my entire childhood.    so,    picture this:   amazing amy,   sitting with a group of  new  york  female  socialites  with tight pussies   &   who giggle over every stupid joke whispered at this table,   drinking a glass of white wine as i complain about the latest addition to the amazing amy franchise,   everyone laughing as we keep up a miserable,   meaningless conversation none of us want to endure.    [amazing amy gets her  first  boyfriend!    meanwhile,   i’m still holding back my  friends  hair while they vomit in the bathroom.    what a fucking job.   it’s  actually  pathetic.]    i stay true to my new york roots,   though.    instead of  continuing  with the whole group,   i play nice  for  once.    i focus on someone else   &   give them their own turn   —   let them complain about  their  life as i down my glass,   pretending to listen when the reality is,   i wonder how much of a cunt they sound like  versus  me.    [i don’t know the girl,   just that she’s a frequent party-goer   &   her name is something of a fruit,   only her attitude resembles that of a half-baked lobster!]

dear diary,    tra   &   la!    i am smiling a big adopted-orphan smile as i write this.    i am embarrassed at how happy i am,   like some comic of a teenage girl talking on the phone while twirling her hair!    my husband is going to jail for my murder!    [not  literal  murder,   but the police don’t know that.]    at this very moment,    amazing amy is  missing.    gone,   no trace leading to me   ;   nick dunne,   my  cheating,   shitbag  of  a  husband,   is going to prison for my murder   &   will get the death penalty.    i know what this looks like.    i know it’s rather  extreme  framing your husband for your murder,   but nick isn’t an ordinary  husband.    my smug husband is stupid,   a user,   a  murderer.    he took every part of myself until he sucked me dry.    [   &   here i thought  i  was the best sucker.]    i won’t lie,   the first two years,   everything was okay.    nick  loved  me.    he loved the version of me he  wanted  me to be.    i was pretending,   the way i often did,   pretending to have a personality.    what can i say?   i can’t help it.

&   yet,   here i am,   being told to  stop  pretending from some  man  who already makes me want to slit my wrists   &   bash my head on the concrete outside.    it’s tempting for some like me,   who likes to win,   to bash  his  head against the concrete outside.    besides   ;   amy dunne is dead,   right?    it would be nancy doing the crime   &   participating in the leering strange activity.    but these thought have to stop,   amy!    everything will all start collapsing upon me,    the investigation involving my disappearance will end   ;   nick dunne will walk free   &   be the winner.    i  will  be  the  loser.    would i let my scumbag husband win  again?   no fucking way.    i am no longer  game  for that bullshit,   honey.     fuck you.

you’re probably asking  how  did  i  get  here?    how did  i  end up having an orphaned college student living in my house,   eating my food,   &   ruining everything i had planned for nick   &   i.    the answer is:   nick.    nick has a soft spot for kids who he can see pieces of himself in   &   once again,   here  i  am,   losing to the man who continues to murder me,   day  after  day.    that fucking prick.    we were supposed to be pregnant!    we were supposed to be going to monthly doctors appointment,    looking at the embryo of our baby   ;   everything i had ever wanted for us.    this little cunt has ruined everything.    walking around the house with her empty fucking eyes,   void of any type of emotion,   the periodic weeping from our guest room seeping through the walls.    [oh boohoo,   i’m an orphan whose family was gassed by my sister.    shut the fuck up.]    if this was another story,   i might entertain her   &   who knows,   we might have even became friends.    [i might have been a little more  open  to nick’s monologue explaining how he was offering to let her stay with us while attending our local college.    he didn’t learn his lesson,   fucking  asshole.    i might have even felt  sorry  for her.]    this is  my  story,   though.    i am the protagonist   &   i won’t let this little runt ruin that.

what would you do if you ended up having  a  traumatized,  orphaned,  little  cunt  living under your roof,   winning the heart of your  darling  husband  who has promised the  world  to you   ;   he knows the knife at his back   &   pulls the rug from right under you.

A.    KICK HER OUT!    TELL HER TO FIND SOMEWHERE ELSE   &   THROW HER   &   HER BENADRYL OUT!

B.    PRETEND TO BE NICE,   ONLY TO TURN AWAY LATER TONIGHT   &   THREATEN YOUR HUSBAND.    DON’T  DISAPPOINT  ME,   NICK.    YOU KNOW WHAT I’M CAPABLE OF.

C.    CALL THE POLICE.    INSTIGATE A SCENE,   AWAIT FOR NICK TO COME HOME FROM THE BAR,   &   BLAME HER FOR EVERYTHING.    YOU’LL SLIT YOUR WRIST,   BE TAKEN TO THE HOSPITAL,   &   SCOLDED BY YOUR IDIOT HUSBAND.    HE’S AN IDIOT BUT  HE’LL  KNOW.

D.    DO NOTHING   &   RELUCTANTLY LET YOUR HUSBAND WIN FOR THE MOMENT,   &   MAKE HER SOME TEA FOR HER BENADRYL.

ANSWER:    d.

i can tell you more about how i did  everything,   but i’d like you to know me first.    not diary amy,   who is a work of fiction,   [and nick said i wasn’t really a writer   &   why did i ever listen to him?]   but me,   actual  amy.    what kind of a woman would do such a thing?    let me tell you a story,   a true story,   so you can  begin  to understand.

nick dunne is a cheating,   lying,   sack-of-shit.    i know what you’re thinking:   i’m extreme   &    a  psychopathic  bitch.    i need you to know that nick dunne is not the victim.    he has taken  everything  from me.    he has killed me   &   destroyed everything i ever wanted to be.    i played the part of the wife he wanted   ;   i was the  girl  of  his  dreams.    i drank warm beer,   i ate cold pizza,   i even learned football plays for him   &   was the  cool  wife  for when his friends would visit.    what did he do in return?    he got lazy.   he became a slob   &   sat around,   jerking off to porn while i was  still  the stupid,   useless-yet-still-devoted housewife of his dreams.     i fucking hate him.    

if i’m going to disappear   &   frame my husband for my murder,   i need to start planning.    i need friends who i spilled my  darkest  secrets  to.    people who gasped in shock of nick’s  horrible  actions   &   nod their heads while listening to my sob-story.   everyone loves a damsel in distress,   especially  men.    i know how to play them like the violin   ;   i’ve only been doing it with nick  for  years.    [amazing amy would be so proud of me!]    so instead of nodding my head at his words,   i choose the dramatics,   taking a long sip from my wine glass   &   take a deep,   shaky breath.    ❝    i   –   i don’t want to  bash  on my husband.    ❞    you’d never hurt me?    i  can  respect  the  bullshit.    a bullshitter recognizes a bullshitter,   right?    let’s see if  you  can spot one.

well if that isn’t a million dollar question.    who am i?    you  fucking  tell  me.    i’m nick’s wife,   the  cool  girl,   who waxes her pussy dry   &   keeps her waist small for  him.    [a nice little  pocket  for my darling,   beautiful,   amazing,   crooked-smile,   missourian husband!]    i am the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with, whether he realizes it or not.    he can try   &   divorce me,   find himself a  normal  boring life with no excitement   &   a boring shitty job with his  laptop  for  laptopping,   but he’ll never stop thinking about  me.    he loves me   ;   he loves having his hand between my thighs because it fits  perfectly   &   everything i do to stay a  cool  girl  just for him.    that fucking asshole.    that  fucking  murderer.    i keep my part going   &   you’re supposed to keep yours going,   nicholas.    yours is falling so i’ll let mine fall for a moment,   asshole.

❝    i’m amazing  fucking  amy.    ❞    if the feminists were here,   they would be chanting for me!    realize your worth,   amy!    leave your  worthless  scumbag  of a husband who's currently shoving his cock into a college girl’s cunt.    i’m still awaiting for my academy award,   hollywood!    i can continue this conversation without hesitating,   making the pain in my eyes evident.    i can gape my mouth,   nod my head as some  realization  washes over me that makes me want to  punch  my  husband  into the ground.    i’ll become the woman every middle-aged mother of three wants to be after realizing how miserable her life is,   before aiming the gun at her forehead   &   squeezing the fucking trigger.    [that could never be  my  brains  splattered across the wall!]

NICK   +   AMY     :     MARRIED  ON  JULY  5TH.                                                        [character  analysis]

do  you  take  amy  to  be  your  lawfully  wedded  wife?   IF  SO,    ANSWER  I  DO. do  you  take  nick  to  be  your  lawfully  wedded  husband?   IF  SO,    ANSWER  I  DO.

❝    it was horrible.    humiliating.    disgusting.    ❞    i’ve gotten good at painting myself as a  damsel  in  distress.    everyone loves a sob story   &   an under-dog.    they love a final girl,   the one who survived it  all.    the police don’t question my story anymore,   instead they remain adamant in making sure i’m  okay.    making sure i’m sleeping at night,   even sending bouquet of flowers to add to my  newfound  comfort.    [the halls of the house are full of them from women who feel sympathy for me,   spilling their guts to a  random  stranger  who can  relate  to their lives.    news flash:   i don’t relate to them   ;   their stories  almost  make me laugh   &   feel sorry for how  moronic  they sound.    they fumble around with their lives   &   mope because they don’t feel a single thing but sorry for themselves.    me   &   them are  not  the same.    they’re losers   ;   i  never  fucking lose.]    people find my story to be noir:   the dumb   &   weak  cunt  who suffered behind the image of a  cheating  scumbag  excuse  of  a  husband,   only to get kidnapped by the man who had  almost  ruined her life in the past in college.    the story bites hard   &   bares it teeth,   it reels in the angry feminists   &   stay-at-home moms who watch ellen abbott  all  fucking  day,   &   it makes them feel  horrible  for me.    give me my fucking oscar,   hollywood.    i deserve it.

sharp objects novel sentence starters.

@herrgone·   :   𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞, 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐚. 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐦𝐞.

your rust dipped tongue curls around a haphazard sigh,   a vagabond soul itching for another shot of fleeting adrenaline.  normalcy was never enough to satiate you, was it?   tuck away your wounds now  &  masquerade with too much bravado  (  they rot wetly in the crevices betwixt bone  ;  bleeding decay into your veins, tying your spine into knots. &  how you ache  !  not just once, but for evermore.  )    ❛❛    i thought you liked games.  ❜❜    tongue clicks against the backslop of ivory teeth.  you sink ever comfortably into your chair,  interest peaked.

 ❛❛    what’s the matter, amy?  not clever enough to keep up?  ❜❜   alabastrine visage cants sideward,  raven brows quirked  &  lips pulled into a smirk to mirror your challenge.  you’re bordering on cynicism,  a weary  &  jaded cataclysm,  the antithesis to your youthful appearance. inhale  &  exhale the stars you were born to carry in your lungs   ;   a collapse of impending supernovas.  SHE IS AS OLD AS THEM.  (   you know better than to let looks fool  :   you’ve always been a wolf in sheep’s clothing,   an enigma waiting to be unravelled.  to try now is sisyphean.   )    ❛❛   i mean,  seriously,  i expected better from you.   ❜❜

dear diary,   my hands are going to wrap themselves around this woman’s neck shortly if she does not  shut  the  fuck  up.    something in her is electric   ;   a switch has turned on   &   it makes me want to grab a fork,   stick it into an electrical outlet,   &   burn myself to a crisp.    [i don’t like her,   i don’t like her  bitchy  attitude,   &   i want to kill her.    i won’t,   though.    those days are  behind  me.]    everyone lavishes me with attention.    pillows.    everyone wants to offer me pillows:   we are  all  laboring under a mass psychosis that my rape   &   miscarriage have left me forever achy   &   delicate.    i have a permanent case of sparrow’s bones   ;   i must be held gently in the palm,   lest i break.    not  her,   though.    this pretentious  bitch  who believes she has the upper-hand by challenging me,   as if her lungs are bursting with words about me,   damning  words.    she acts as if she  knows  something,   something that i don’t  want  her to know.