Self-interest taught me to receive bad news the way hospital patients receive morphine in a syringe. It’s repulsive and it’s pitiful and it’s achingly selfish to claim that the injection of hurt running in my bloodstream is as cold as my mother’s hands, suddenly everything I do is rational because I suffer, suddenly my pain will prevail because it doesn’t matter who else is popping pills, cut up my wrist and you will see the ice spilling out of my veins. Don’t you see that my cold, my hurt is enough for us all.
I’ll bring my disease to show-n-tell, but it’s not contagious, don’t worry, only I have it. In freshman year, we learn about the Cold War in history class, and I can’t help but think that you and I are Russia and America, but instead of nuclear weapons, we rip our refrigerated chests open and compare whose explosion is bigger before we both self-destruct. We detonate into dust on Friday, but by Saturday, we’re painting each other’s toenails fuschia with arsenic and apologies.
There are planets colliding against my ribcage, made of seventy-five percent grief and twenty-five percent pride, we grip these sickening globes like trophies to our hearts because without them, there would be nothing left to hold on to. You tell me goodbye, the world doesn’t revolve around you, and I guess you took the fucking sun with you too, because everything is so dark. I’m whispering I’m sorry for making this a contest, but by then the toxins I used as justification for my constantly waning and waxing moods are leaking back into my arteries and I’m dying of pulmonary edema.
There’s a gaping black hole filled with pregnant ladies’ screams carved into my skin with a plastic spoon that I know obstructed me from seeing your own. Except maybe mine will heal with time and yours won’t. I tell you I wish I could suck your sadness out and flush it away too, you tell me you asshole, then stop pulling me apart even more.
I know I’m not the only one with problems but maybe we can just paint our nails again
“We won’t ever be partners,” Dean said, his voice razor-sharp and unrepentant. “Because as good as you are at getting inside normal people’s heads, I don’t even have to work to get inside a killer’s. Doesn’t that bother you? Didn’t you ever notice how easy it was for me to be the monster when we were ‘working’ together?”
There was something chilling about the phrase. Leaves behind. It could have just meant “parked the car.” But it didn’t sound like that when Calla said it. It sounded like a synonym for abandon. And it seemed like it would take something pretty momentous to make Gansey abandon the Pig.
Left it behind. The echo felt deliberate. Gansey would not abandon the Camaro unless he was under duress; Glendower’s men wouldn’t abandon his shield without similar distress.
The character who stands out the most – aside from Veronica, of course – is Logan Echolls (Jason Dohring). Like Kristen Bell, Dohring is endlessly engaging. He’s introduced as an “obligatory psychotic jackass”, but as the season progresses, Logan’s humanized without being watered-down; even when he’s doing something as thoroughly loathesome as bribing a homeless vet to join in on his homebrew Bumfights video, there’s an undercurrent of understanding why Logan is the way he is. The character changes throughout the season, but the shift feels deserved and natural, not just because that’s what’s scrawled on the whiteboard in the writing room
For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill with a single glance from his eyes. That’s a basilisk, listeners. One simple test: Check whether the thing that’s glaring at you has got legs. If it has, it’s safe to look into its eyes, although if it really is You-Know-Who, that’s still likely to be the last thing you ever do.