The next day, she threatened to slit my throat in the dead of night, said my sheets would run redder than every last cunt in Orange County.
HOW COULD SHE POSSIBLY KNOW? How much her words would affect me?
There were all these portraits of me hung on the walls and they would dance on the frames,
the shadow people that spiritually strapped my body to the mattress.
Freshly thirty and newly heartbroken, the second class of our writers' workshop found me at a very midlife crisis time in my life. On Monday, things ended with the man I thought I might
“You want to go to Heaven with me tonight?” Juniper delicately dropped one of the pieces of sandwich into her mouth.
The universe seemed filled with women, aside from my brother and I it was all women and they did everything and chatted amiably amongst themselves,
I couldn’t help feeling they abandoned me in our womanhood when it wasn’t their stop.
The cow udder, Freud wrote, was in its form a penis and in its nature a breast, and therefore the intermediary between penis and breast. The blowjob was therefore the image of innocence.
I arrived to England in a puddle of mortal pain caused by a breakup.
We had enough coke on us to keep the entire party going until sunrise, and when the late arrivals started trickling in, we got practical.
The distractingly beautiful former beauty editor asks me whether I've read Yoga by Emmanuel Carrere, which I have. "Why are you only asking her? Is this a gender thing?" Our teacher feigns offense.
You can measure out your life with coffee spoons and you can measure it by the way someone starts an email.
Book: Alice, or The Wild Girl
This has been a bad date that ended with a bad blowjob.
Cincinnati radicalized me.
In the meantime I will leave the box of mac and cheese I bought to keep in my pantry, just in case I need to feed you, collect dust.
I was searching for inner peace. V stopped replying to my calls and texts.
It intensified until one of them crashed into me and spilled my beer.
You were never going to let me, a Hindu atheist, walk down an aisle, in front of your parents to “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” (ok, my fantasy).
Obviously this is not everyone’s experience during a marathon
DIY Girl turns shit into sugar, men into murderers. DIY Girl is a melted qt-colored crayon
“Give me his number,” my aunt said, pulling on her weightlifting gloves.
Art is, to me, a balance between what you say and what you don’t. What you let a stranger’s imagination fill in.
