I'm a fucking Final Girl.

I'm the kind of girl you don't want to fuck with.

I'm sure someone would say it's my own damn fault. That it was my responsibility to build an emergency fund. At least three months' salary, the experts say. I would love to backhand whoever came up with that number. They clearly never had a job with take-home pay that barely covers rent, food, and utilities. Because here's the thing about being poor-most people don't understand it unless they've been there themselves.

I think she's going to say something about Him.  Most likely because of the nightmare, which lingers sticky on my skin like drying perspiration.  I brace myself to hear her tell me that He's resurfaced, as I always knew He would.  It doesn't matter that He's dead.  That I gladly watched Him die.

That's why Quincy's Sweets exists.  When I graduated college with a marketing degree and moved to New York, I still thought of myself as a victim.  So did everyone else.  Baking seemed the only way to change that.  I wanted to pour my runny, sloshing existence into a human-shaped mold and crank up the heat, emerging soft, springy, and new.

Every house has a story. Ours is a ghost story. It’s also a lie. And now that yet another person has died within these walls, it’s finally time to tell the truth.

What I do recall is colored by what’s in the Book. Instead of memories, I have excerpts. It’s like looking at a photograph of a photograph. The framing is off. The colors are dulled. The image is slightly dark.

She's fascinating in the same way tornadoes are fascinating. You want to see how much they're going to spin.

We grow up expecting our parents to live forever until, one day, they’re suddenly gone.

Why do boys totally suck? I'm starting to think it might be ingrained in them. Like, they're taught at a young age that they can be assholes because most women will let them get away with it.