He told me he knew someone on death row. That dreamcatchers weaken over time. He said Oktoberfest was the Promised Land.
Before the third time I lost my virginity, I recorded myself eating an orange with nothing but my mouth.
The wanting requires an immense amount of theater.
We landed on Court TV but didn’t watch it. We talked for five hours.
We cracked the Nyquil bottle’s safety seals and interlaced our arms like two pirate bridesmaids as we counted down our chugging
I’ve never told anyone this story before because it is a little embarrassing. Plus legally I’m not really supposed to talk about it but…here we go.
I had my first sexual experience when I was
I did not raise my glass in toast to the passing of Gene Hackman.
There is inherent loneliness in the mountains.
Catholic guilt burned a hole in my palm and hidden in a bag, inside another bag, I lowered it into a dumpster like burying evidence of dead nuns.
I felt his absence slowly growing and absorbing me like a black hole.
The freedom is almost overwhelming.
You were compiling something and the itch for alcohol had blocked all business until you’d gotten up, checked the stove, and left.
Other people when they have a sore throat and can't sleep: "I have a sore throat and can't sleep."
Me when I have a sore throat and can't sleep:
+
It’s been 3:20 in the morning for ages. I
Telling my wife was hard. Telling my best friend was going to be hard. Telling my family was going to be hard. But leaving was right. And I was raised to do hard things that were right.
You are only who you are to him. Waitresses treat you weird and ask questions..
You didn’t want to manipulate me like you did the others. Should I feel bad for the others?
I suggested we arm wrestle as I did with every boy. I was a pick me and for my spreadsheet.
The room smelled like beer and sweat and crushed velvet. The air seemed to hum, hot and full of dust particles and guitar feedback.
Tempestuous is the language we carry in our head, the music of new words and lovers, the cities we dip into on a lost weekend. Jeanne, the eponymous narrator of Arielle Burgdorf’s novel Jeanne,
While many struggle to adapt to the largeness and complexity of NYC, Escobar thrived and used it to inform her work.
It is the night before I will meet my future ex wife. Neither of the mirrors are skinny.
I’m talking to Siena Foster-Soltis on a patio overlooking the lights of Los Angeles. The hillside home, in the ultra-luxe enclave of Bel-Air, is an apt location for Siena’s latest play, Over the
She wasn’t cruel. She smiled when he refilled her water glass. She asked about his mother. They had sex with the lights on.
That sudden clarity pierced through her: the baby’s soft blanket; the Frappuccino sweating in her hand, the grocery list in the diaper bag. All of this could change and when it did, she would cease to exist.
