I don’t want fiction. What I want is truth. Or someone’s version of it.
Two weeks after she and Mark were married, Hannah fell in love.
The allure of Mardi Gras is to feel this way: unseen and unseeable.
She flicked a bit of citrus on her tongue. Her laugh was hard and high.
I’m mourning in the armpits of a lover we once called a family friend.
He fell to the floor and begged the gods. The gods were silent.
I didn’t trust her. Relationships like ours aren’t built on trust.
Suddenly, all of the past seemed now like the same endless race.
Ah, yes, Rita reminded herself: I won. Her Mistress of Mayhem award.
Keely finally stops crying when they step outside. The shock of cold.
I hate it here, but I’ll make the best of it, because that’s what mothers do.
I looked out at the busy world, and I saw nothing but its ugly bones.
I’m the one with the most crumbs, little bits of salad or fudge.
Creating so many mail merges, loading ink, unjamming paper.
My spirit twinkles like tea lights above a backyard patio in 1950s Queens.
New cartoons from Glen LeLievre, Liza Donnelly, and more!
At the moment we were having that conversation, she already knew.
It was like a scene in a movie; it didn’t seem real. The man kicked her.
Arnold’s daily life was a race between money and death.
People only see that side of him. He is still a boy, learning to be a man.
There’s nothing left to do but crush the garlic, check the water on the stove.
Did you hear about the candidate who grabbed Hugh’s dick?
The mistake you make with this man is, you wait around for him.
Please look away from Mars dangling so angry in so much darkness.
I was creating art instead of counting beans like everyone else.
She’s young and lovely in a mad, disheveled way, and hard to resist.
“Why, Ma? I don’t understand. I just don’t want you to be alone.”