Best 27 quotes of Amina Akhtar on MyQuotes

Bloody Sarah, fashion killer. God, it sounded so good. Sarah could make anything sound good.

But right now, I felt depressed. This must be what that postpartum shit was all about. I’d given birth to a masterpiece, and now I was bored.

Crime shows make you think every homicide will be solved thanks to a stray hair, a random skin cell. It wasn’t real. Nothing was as advanced as what we saw on TV.

Everyone knows that promotions are based on your social standing, no matter what Celia says. And you have none. You’re a total nobody. Seriously, no one knows who you are. Which is just so sad because you’re, like, really great.

Frantically, I mouthed WWMKAAD (What would Mary-Kate and Ashley do?) to myself over and over until the rage subsided a bit.

I’d done it, I killed her, but it didn’t feel like I had. You know that feeling? Like when you unplug your flatiron but then aren’t sure you did?

I’d even gotten her lunch for her, carrying it like a pathetic assistant while she whimpered about her arm. I didn’t even spit in it. I wanted to. (Imagine watching her eat something that came from inside me. Oh, heaven.)

If Blake Lively and Blake Lively had a baby, it’d be Sarah Elizabeth Taft.

It’s fashion. No one really gets along.

It was strange that the girl couldn’t remember what she had for lunch yet somehow knew every designer’s phone number by heart.

I wanted her to say to me that I was perfect, I was everything she wanted in a friend. There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing.

I wanted to devise a torture device that made Celia ride until she died. Or better yet, start my own class: Psycho Cycle. It’d be the ideal workout for today’s woman: half the class has to get away from crazed killers (spoiler alert: they die), and the rest of us come out looking like Kaia Gerber. Million-dollar idea.

I wanted to punch her. I wanted to rip her blown-out-to-perfection blonde hair until she was bloody and bald. I wanted her to say I was stunning and gorgeous, her ideal vision of a best friend.

I was desperate for a Sarah win. But the more I craved it, the more annoyed I got. At Sarah, not myself. She would never be satisfied. I glanced at my Instagrammed selfie from the salon. My hair looked good, dammit. What would it take for Sarah Taft to tell me I was perfect?

I wondered what would shut her up the fastest: smashing her head through the glass window or agreeing with her. I decided to go with the latter. Why ruin her pretty face?

Maybe next time someone helps you like I did, you won’t be such an ungrateful bitch. Oh, Merry Christmas.

My need for attention was going to ruin me. I had to play it cool. I drew a heart on his board. See? Nothing but love and positive vibes.

She was crying over shoes. I wanted to slap her. I wanted to take those shoes and smash her head in.

She was found in her apartment yesterday. Dead.” About time.

So I made her get up. I told her to stop crying and get back to her desk.” Later I bashed those ugly shoes into her face.

Style bloggers were just so impermanent these days. One day they’re on top of the world, the next, they’re toe up in the morgue.

That night I set the building on fire and killed everyone inside. Just kidding. I watched three back-to-back episodes of Law & Order. A girl needed a release. It was all work and no play lately.

This was life; shit happens. You either dealt with it and went back to wearing Gucci, or you curled up in a ball and waited to die. Only the strong survived.

This was what friendship was: hugs, shopping, and some major lies.

We’re considering it suspicious for now. Why didn’t anyone report her missing? She’d been dead for a few days.” A full week, actually. But who was counting?

Worse than that, she was blaming me for Lisa’s death. Me? As if. She should be blaming Lisa. No, she should be thanking me—Lisa wore veils.

You know what they say—if you can’t join them, beat them.