I sometimes think life is a reality show, and we’re all just one step away from making the loser edit.

Divorce decrees should come with a warning sticker: opportunity cost higher than you think, hook back up as soon as you can.

There are the grace moments in life when you’re able to ride the wave just ahead of the piper, and there are others still when debts must be paid.

The lifelong narcissism of being someone’s child; my hurt, your bad. Reduced from personhood to parenthood, held forever to account.

The baddies would quake, the babies would live, and if there was collateral damage of the slow-moving who couldn’t get out of the way, whoever said life was fair was a loser anyway.

Give a foolish, weak man with a Mussolini self-image enough rope and he’ll hang himself, or so my hope in retributive justice went.

Death is not revenge. It’s the only choice left to you, a preventative measure, in a game whose rules were rigged before it began.

What I failed to recognize, at least until it became impossible not to, is how the kind of intense anger that burned inside Clare justified its own set of rules. Or just how much it would come to mirror my own.

Men’s insatiable desire for female flesh; was there no acceptable limit?