I Haven’t the Strength to Give Up
After my mother killed herself, I lived with my aunt for a year. I got the bedroom of her one-bedroom apartment and she took the foldout couch/bed, though the mattress was only as thick and cushioned as a little girl’s thigh.
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I’m Only Capable of Sharing All of Me With You
My partner is a shrink. Because of that she’s hung up on all kinds of things, like being healthy, not being unhealthy and watching Reality TV. Read more »
It’s Inevitable I’ll Get the Truth Out of You
He was a demon. A dark demon with black eyes. That’s what the little girl down the hall said.
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I’m Tired Of Being Used
Lying to her therapist had gotten old. So Chissa’s New Year’s Resolution was to be honest for fifty minutes a week, and it hadn’t gone well. Before Chissa stopped lying, her therapist had been motherly, consoling, dispensing helpful thought gems like, “When things are going badly, I set very easy goals for myself.” But as Chissa relayed constant feats of disobeying logic, the basic tenants of feminism and good sense to have somewhat humiliating sex with unemployed men, her therapist couldn’t hide her hostility anymore. Every week, Chissa knew to look forward to disapproving commentary about her wardrobe, her taste in television and the men in Chissa’s life. Joe became “the guy who did that thing with your tampon.” Nick was “the drug addict with the flesh-eating virus.” And Craig was just the “molester,” though he hadn’t been convicted.
The Light of the Stars That Were Extinguished Ages Ago Still Reaches Us
I make snap judgments. It’s the worst thing about me. And what’s even worse is that I’m usually right. I can tell if a guy wears cologne by just scanning a picture of his face. I can tell if a girl is going to betray me, stab me in the back and fuck my boyfriend by just glancing at her shoes and her hair. Read more »
I’m Not Looking to Be Fixed
“Few people realize how much courage it takes for a woman to open a romance novel on an airplane.”—Jayne Ann Krentz
I wish people would write poetry I could understand. Because then maybe I could write poetry to help people understand me. But until then, I’ll make porn.
San Franco!
I bought some antacids and a pack of playing cards for my stay at the Corner Bar and Grill. Back at my apartment, my movers—two black gentlemen with calve-like forearms and authentic work boots—were working harder for me in one afternoon than I ever planned to work in my entire life, unless I ended up joining the Peace Corps or volunteered to build gazebos for charity when I retired.
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Fuck Them
“The summer after I graduated college I decided I needed to quickly move from the seaside of paradise of Santa Barbara (sometimes called “the Vagina of the west coast”) back to Los Angeles (obviously “the asshole of the west coast”) to begin what I thought would be my life. After hitting a few snags I realized I had better get a part-time job so I could move out of my moms house or at least afford a hotel for a night so that I might have chance to get laid one day. Without too much trouble, I got hired working at a specialty grocery store known for their discounted wine, distinctive frozen foods and decent wages. This store applied the metaphor of a ship to their operations and used ship lingo for everything they could. The assistant manager was the first mate. I was a ship’s hand. Read more »
How I Need a Hand in Mine to Feel
I got happy/sad when he said he was leaving. Happy/sad in that way I get whenever something I’ve been really conniving about works. Read more »