"There are no actual pages. They are hollow. They are just for show. I think how perfect that is, how much of the literary world is just for show. Hollow. Superficial. More often than not it doesn’t matter the words inside, only the name on the book, the book as an object, the author as object. Author as persona. Author as capitalistic commodity. Minor celebrity. A name to drop at a New York City party."

Before that glorious year, I was relegated to the “husky” section, which is clothing not for dogs but overweight children.

It was bad today.

I stood in Trader Joe’s two hours