“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.

I figured that Anthony must have been a false promise: handsome but bad in bed, or he led with a sweetness that carried a threat underneath it.

“No it’s not. Those are weird internet people. Have you tried making real-life friends?”

Un día me iré sin decir adiós.

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.

She wrote him stories and he told her not to publish them.

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.

Snow misted, or so I remember
I was awake, but only partly
Somewhere beyond dreams
In my space between nightmares
Laying in the dark
And lying that things were still light
Outside, the city sat

Sensitive men have a way of making problems for themselves. ​​​​​​

Art is, to me, a balance between what you say and what you don’t. What you let a stranger’s imagination fill in.

While decorating for Christmas, my nieces stopped mid–garland untangling to perform their new choreography to the ten-minute “All Too Well.” No one asked for it. They were just doing it. Full-body