I most certainly am not acting out, I inform Mom via ESP, as she silently bids me to exercise her extolled virtue of impulse control. Across from us at the dinner table looms a leering lech

Like everyone born after 1991, I hate my job.

if I could talk to your friends they would dox my hinge prompts. I dream that I'm you and give birth to myself.

What author’s (dead or alive) persona is aspirational?
I have never found any authors to be aspirational.

The “death of the mother” is trying to do two things: the first is a nod to family abolition and the death of the mother within a capitalistic context. And the second is explicitly thinking through “mothers” dying during childbirth or dying because they are unable to receive care for abortion.

When you get out of Bellvue, they just discharge you and won’t even tell you where you are,

It’s not necessarily loneliness that I feel but rather a burgeoning propensity toward violence.

I taste cigarette in her mouth.

I can’t read in Farsi but I taught him how to say kiss, my flower, small, my heart and now the florists know

Video surveillance is for your safety 

I lost my thought and now I can't do anything but listen 

Writing is only anything if you can sublimate or depreciate the original thing into a

I think sometimes what people mean by “likable” as opposed to sympathetic or goodhearted is “conforming to my idea of what behavior I should aspire to.”

I think outside of drinking himself to death, Fitzgerald had a pretty fantastic life.

I’m somewhat like that, but more of a junkballer, a term better known for baseball pitchers: someone who gets by with unexpected spins and slices and wiliness due to a deficit of conventional talent.

In a spacious room at the midtown hotel where the inimitable Tennessee Williams died, congregated a small but lively salon of authors and storytellers.

Can you each pick two words to describe your book? 

Laura: Escapist fantasy

Eve: The first thing that came to mind for me was: “Oh, god.”

The black Mr. Sketch marker, Cucumber JUUL pods, Dr Pepper Lip Smacker, spirit duplicator, soggy sugary cereal milk mush, pink rubber pencil shavings, burning toast stroke, pumpkin spice scented hand sanitizer. 

I eat a big salad and watch Kim and Kourtney eat big salads on a ten-year-old episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

The cop and strip club security guard had climbed onto the roof from outside the building and were trying to get in through the locked laundry room window. Claire let them in.

She was always looking in the mirror.

“How do you say, I am the wolf.”

“Je suis le loup. Tu es mon loup. You are my wolf.”

“Je suis le loup,” I say.