Alice, I Think

In the future if my mother tries to shame me with her disapproval, I will let her know in no uncertain terms that I reject her and all of her codependent baggage. I am Codependent No More.

Maybe careers aren’t something you can really plan for. They just sort of happen, like brown eyes or flat feet. I took one of those career aptitude tests last year, and it showed that I should be a flight attendant or a seamstress. Not a fashion designer or anything, mind you, but a sweatshop worker. Apparently stewardesses and sweatshop workers and I enjoy a lot of the same interests and activities.

If you are alive and conscious, you are probably codependent.

I am not a people person.

I think MacGregor might be a genius. Anyone so oblivious to the horror of the human world must be.

If you start looking up, they start asking questions.

Not being a big one for having friends, I had no idea what I was going to do with Aubrey, you know, to entertain him.

Well, at least I can spare myself the ordeal of a whole battery of personality tests. My personality is poor; that much is clear.

It’s not a good idea to let on about extreme happy feelings. People get ideas.

I may never recover. It was like an out-of-body experience. I’m an alien trying on human rituals.

Much as I usually dislike nice, positive people, I have to admit that Margaret isn’t bad.

I’m already in the late stages of advanced detachment where my mother is concerned. With a little practice I could feel that way about everyone.

I haven’t been that happy since I became conscious for the first time, you know, when I became aware of myself and got so uncomfortable and everything.

I don’t care about this stuff. I’m not even sure I’m a girl. I’m an eye in the sky. I am detached. I’m an idiot.

It seemed a little risky, enjoying something so… fun, but I couldn’t help it.