i am so much happier now that I’m dead. Technically, “missing. ” Soon to be presumed dead. Gone. And my lazy, lying, cheating, oblivious husband… Will go to prison for my murder. Nick Dunne took my pride and my dignity… And my hope and my money. He took and took from me until I no longer existed. That’s murder. Let the punishment fit the crime. To fake a convincing murder, you have to have discipline. You befriend a local idiot. Harvest the details of her humdrum life. And cram her with stories about your husband’s violent temper. Secretly create some money troubles. Credit cards, perhaps online gambling. With the help of the unwitting… Bump up your life insurance. Purchase getaway car. Craigslist. Generic. Cheap. Pay cash. You need to package yourself so that people will truly mourn your loss. And America loves pregnant women. As if it’s so hard to spread your legs. You know what’s hard? Faking a pregnancy. First, drain your toilet. Invite pregnant idiot into your home… And ply her with lemonade. Steal pregnant idiot’s urine. Voil. A pregnancy is now part of your legal medical record. Happy anniversary. Wait for your clueless husband… To start his day. Off he goes. And the clock is ticking. Meticulously stage your crime scene… With just enough mistakes to raise the specter of doubt. You need to bleed. A lot. A lot, a lot. A head wound kind of bleed. A crime scene kind of bleed. You need to clean poorly… Like he would. Clean and bleed. Bleed and clean. And leave a little something behind. A fire in July? And because you’re you… You don’t stop there. You need a diary. Minimum, 300 entries on the Nick and Amy story. Start with the fairy tale early days. Those are true. And they’re crucial. You want Nick and Amy to be likable. After that, you invent. The spending. The abuse. The fear. The threat of violence. And Nick thought he was the writer. Burn it just the right amount. Make sure the cops will find it. Finally, honor tradition with a very special treasure hunt. And if I get everything right, the world will hate Nick… For killing his beautiful, pregnant wife. And after all the outrage, when I’m ready… I’ll go out on the water with a handful of pills… And a pocket full of stones. And when they find my body, they’ll know… Nick Dunne dumped his beloved like garbage. And she floated down past all the other… Abused, unwanted, inconvenient women. Then, Nick will die, too. Nick and Amy will be gone. But, then, we never really existed. Nick loved a girl I was pretending to be. “Cool girl. ” Men always use that as their defining compliment. “She’s a cool girl. ” Cool girl is hot. Cool girl is game. Cool girl is fun. Cool girl never gets angry at her man. She only smiles in a chagrined, loving manner… And then presents her mouth for fucking. She likes what he likes. So evidently, he’s a vinyl hipster who loves fetish manga. If he likes girls gone wild, she’s a mall babe… Who talks football and endures buffalo wings at Hooters. When I met Nick Dunne, I knew he wanted cool girl. And for him, I’ll admit, I was willing to try. I wax-stripped my pussy raw. I drank canned beer watching Adam Sandler movies. I ate cold pizza and remained a size two. I blew him semi-regularly. I lived in the moment. I was fucking game. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy some of it. Nick teased out of me things I didn’t know existed. A lightness, a humor, an ease. But I made him smarter. Sharper. I inspired him to rise to my level. I forged the man of my dreams. We were happy pretending to be other people. We were the happiest couple we knew. And what’s the point of being together if you’re not the happiest? But Nick got lazy. He became someone I did not agree to marry. He actually expected me to love him unconditionally. Then he dragged me, penniless, to the navel of this great country… And found himself a newer, younger, bouncier…..boo boo keys
Always be trading with every possible advantage.