dunne

'I was jittering from one foot to another, wanting to do something. I didn't want them to discuss how lovely my wife was, I wanted them to go out and search for my fucking wife. I didn't say this out loud, though; I often don't say things out loud, even when I should. I contain and I compartmentalise to a disturbing degree: In my belly-basement are hundreds of bottles of rage, despair, fear, but you'd never guess from looking at me.'


This book makes you say 'fuck'.

A lot.

'What the fuck?'

'Oh my fuck!'

'Why in the...fuck!'

It can't be helped.

You know how i complained the story was far too relatable?

Well i take it back.

I was beyond wrong.

This book has not just 'left' the reservation.

Oh no.

Gillian Flynn's story has gleefully scampered its crazy little self off into the woods to bark at trees and feed on the animals.

You can practically taste the iron.

I'm not even exaggerating.

My face has been set in a permanent state of,

'What the fuckery did i just read?'

for the past three days.

Don't believe me?

Then read away my friends!

I'll be surprised if you don't drop the f-bomb at least once.

I've dropped a few more since finding out who's been cast as the two lead characters in the upcoming Fincher adaptation.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong!
But it's Fincher, so i'll give him the benefit of the doubt.
Especially as i was totally unsure at first of Rooney Mara playing Lisbeth Salander and now i can't think of anyone but her being that character.
But Baffleck?
Really?
He's the greatest.
The bomb in Phantoms.
But as Nick?
Nuh uh.
Just no.
...
I am not happy.



Ps. This biblical mess happened today in the nation's capital.
3 inches of rain in 15 minutes.
With some thunder and lightning as an added bonus.

Noah, where's my fucking ark?