Ottessa Moshfegh

The time I languished in the agony of not being beautiful was more than I care to admit even now

Nothing special happened that night. It’s just a place
to begin.

Being as young as I was, I was terribly sensitive, and determined never to show it

The heart is a moody, greedy thing, I suppose.

we could go out to the frozen lake and stand and shoot at the moon. Or to the beach, lie on our backs, make angels in the snow, shoot at the stars. Such were my romantic ideas for the evening with my new best friend

amazing what the mind will do when the heart is throbbing

lived long enough that self-pity is no longer a pathetic habit of the psyche, but like a cold wet cloth on my forehead bringing down the fever of fear about my inevitable mortal demise.

It’s easy to tell the dirtiest minds—look for the cleanest fingernails.

I expected them to see my drunken wordiness as a kind of coy gesture, as though I were saying, “I’m just a child, innocent to my own foolishness. Aren’t I cute? Love me and I’ll turn a blind eye to your faults.” With those other men, this tactic earned me brief sessions of affection until I became soured and saw that I had defiled myself by appealing to them in the first place.

I wasn’t radical at all. I was simply unhappy.