I don't know if you have noticed this, but it is quite possible for two human beings to have a conversation in which one or both parties involved has absolutely no idea what they're talking about.
Anybody can be charming if they don't mind faking it, saying all the stupid, obvious, nauseating things that a conscience keeps most people from saying. Happily, I don't have a conscience. I say them.
No big deal. We all have blood in us, the trick is keeping it inside.
Nothing in life is fair. Fair is a dirty word and I'll thank you not to use that language around me.
And so as much as I can, I care about her, dear Deborah. It's probably not love, but I would rather she were happy.
I don't do my job to catch the bad guys. Why would I want to do that? No, I do my job to make order out of chaos.
Weren't we all crazy in our sleep? What was sleep, after all, but the process by which we dumped our insanity into a dark subconscious pit and came out on the other side ready to eat cereal instead of our neighbor's children?
IN MY LIFELONG STUDY OF HUMAN BEINGS, I HAVE FOUND that no matter how hard they might try, they have found no way yet to prevent the arrival of Monday morning. And they do try, of course, but Monday always comes, and all the drones have to scuttle back to their dreary workaday lives of meaningless toil and suffering.
It's that moon again, slung so fat and low in the tropical night, calling out across a curdled sky and into the quivering ears of that dear old voice in the shadows, the Dark Passenger, nestled snug in the backseat of the Dodge K-car of Dexter's hypothetical soul. That rascal moon, that loudmouthed leering Lucifer, calling down across the empty sky to the dark hearts of the night monsters below, calling them away to their joyful playgrounds.
...she opened the door very slowly and carefully, half hiding behind it, as if badly frightened of what might be waiting for her on the other side. And considering that it was me waiting, this showed rare common sense.
I did not like this feeling of having feelings.
Killing makes me feel good.
It was clear to me that it wouldn't matter what I did - they would never truly appreciate me or learn what I had to offer. They were far beyond fickle - they were insensible, like kittens,predatory little things, distracted by the first bit of string or shiny bauble that rolled across the floor, and nothing I could ever say or do could possibly make any kind of dent in their willful ignorance.
It was such an unexpected and genuine smile that if I only had a soul I'm sure I would have felt quite guilty.
I thought about the nice clothes that I always wore. Well of course I did. I took pride in being the best dressed monster in Dade County.
Really now: If you can't get me my newspaper on time, how can you expect me to refrain from killing people?
It was almost enough to make me feel emotion.
Life's only obligation, afterall, was to be interesting.
…a cheerful black shadow reared up behind him as he spoke, thundering a happy challenge to my Dark Passenger, which slid forward and bellowed back.
I often find myself in situations where it seems to me like everyone else has read the instruction book
Have you noticed how difficult it is just to get along in the world? If you're no good at all in your job, people treat you badly and eventually you will be unemployed. And if you're a little better than competent, everyone expects miracles from you, every single time. Like most of life, it's a no-win situation. And if you dare to mention it, no matter how creatively you phrase your complaints, you are shunned as a whiner.
I'm quite sure more people fake an awful lot of everyday human contact. I just fake all of it." --Dexter
What a terrible thing life can be.
But as I have noticed on more than one occaision, life itself is unfair, and there is no complaint department, so we might as well accept things the way they happen, clean up the mess, and move on.
Mutilated corpses with a chance of afternoon showers. I got dressed and went to work.
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