“Jesus, I smell like Jeffrey Dahmer's refrigerator.”

“It was strange that in some sort of Jeffrey Dahmer meets Ghandi way I wasable to love myself for hating myself. It seemed like a warped sense oflove. But it was love without conditions.”

“You don't have body parts there do you?" my mother interrupted. "I don't want to open the fridge and find a head on the shelf" Rodney laughed. "No Justina, it doesn't look like Jeffrey Dahmer's hideaway.”

“Was she always that friendly?" I joke."She saw Robert. At least I got that out of her.""Maybe she buried him in the backyard.""Stop.""Did you smell it in there?""Yes.""That wasn't a normal smell. That wasn't the sort of something's-gone-bad-in-the-garbage smell. That was the sort of Dahmer-next-door smell.""Stop it.""I'm serious," I say."It's probably just some dead animal.""Oh, well, in that case, it's fine.”

“He smelled like smoke too, and under it was the edge of apple pies-spice and goodness. Jesus. Even after all that he smelled like a bakery.”

“My theory on housework is, if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch fire, or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you?”