You know, one of the hardest things to admit is that we weren’t loved when we needed it most. It’s a terrible feeling, the pain of not being loved.
We weren’t ourselves when we fell in love, and when we became ourselves – surprise! – we were poison. We complete each other in the nastiest, ugliest possible way.
Sometimes I think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom. I have known so many sick women all my life. Women with chronic pain, with ever-gestating diseases. Women with conditions. Men, sure, they have bone snaps, they have backaches, they have a surgery or two, yank out a tonsil, insert a shiny plastic hip. Women get consumed.
Hello dear readers! A while ago, I mentioned I had a mystery binge in January, which started with reading The Turn of the Key by Ruth Ware. After that I read all of her novels, and then naturally I started reading other mystery authors, because I forgot how awesome thrillers are?
Watching is like nature photography: You don’t interfere with the wildlife.