I love clothes. It’s a fault, probably, but clothes are like a billboard to everyone you meet; easy to manipulate people if you know how to dress. Clothes tell people whether you’re a wimpy little girl, a sultry vixen, or a bad-ass chick they shouldn’t fuck with. I always waver between the latter two...except for that time I posed as someone peddling The Watchtower to get into my target’s house and make the kill. Surprisingly, no one opens the door for a Jehovah’s Witness in a satin bustier.
Why the hell were some people effortlessly beautiful? I mean, I never wanted to be pretty before and I still didn’t really. I just...I wanted everyone else to be ugly too. That wasn’t too much to ask.
"I didn’t concern myself much anymore with “types” since I couldn’t be bothered dating. As long as the car worked and he knew how to drive it, I’d navigate him around the curves; make and model weren’t an issue."