My fiancée wants to have a threesome. He tells me this when he comes home from his new job and I wonder what it is about data analysis and interpretation that gets him going. 

One of the men I love’s pointing a gun—stainless steel, ecru handle--at his temple, and I tell him I’ll do anything if he puts down that gun. 

I feel blessed. I thank God with a capital G for my success.

Have you ever fucked a flower? I recommend it just don’t try telling it what its problem is. 

The bank took the car but they didn't take my legs, so this morning I stole the neighbor kid's bike and pedaled into town. 

At dawn on Saturday, our powerlifting group arrived at the locker room to try on singlets.

Dipping a finger into the little tub of pink polish, Jade struggled to focus on her sacristan duties: polish all the silver for the Sunday Eucharist—two wine chalices, two patens for bread, and one slotted spoon. 

First of all I want to thank you for accepting my friend request.  Out of all our graduating class of 1992, you were the only one to do so.  

I was a mess at every sunrise. The door winked at me, the comb was losing teeth.

I used to part masses. To wade through throngs of children cheering. Boogie would press play on the cassette, and I’d come through the crowd instead of take the aisle. I’d roll on the trampoline and stand above a field of pumping fists. 

I call that year my wandering year or my train station year or my year of the lucky rat year. It was 1996 and I was pregnant with my first child, Boris––born with a strong heart, Boris.

Maybe Marjorie lives a solitary life bookended by Family Feud reruns, spending painstaking hours in front of the set trying to put the city together, but small parts keep breaking off or falling under the couch through her indelicate hands

The neighbor comes to my door with my keys in his hand: I'd left them in the mailbox earlier, or maybe yesterday, or the day before that.

His new girlfriend makes things with her hands. You know. Things. Candle holders out of twigs. A mosaic picture frame out of broken up bits of CDs.

He's lying in bed thinking about his imaginary lover. He's not touching himself, he doesn't think about him when he does, only maybe in the very final moments. 

You ignore the sudden impulse to bash your office mug collection and dance barefoot on the broken glass shards. Instead, you brush your teeth and get into bed because you have a busy day tomorrow!

This is what Ro’s holy confirmation means. It means she’s a woman in the eyes of God. It means she’s almost done with the eighth grade

I walk in the mud by the river. The mud is cold. The mud swallows one foot, then the other. It's hard to remove my foot, the mud won't let me.

Preparation:

- In pint glass, pour Rumchata over ice. 

- Top with Dr. Pepper or Root Beer, whichever he is feeling.

- Drink through a straw.

I knocked your socks off and away they went into another neighborhood, city, state, country, world, and dimension. 

“You should have a drink,” she said.

“I’m going to be alone forever,” I said.

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A lot of people had just given up.  Other people had made survival plans.  Schmitty and his folks were holing up in their basement with shotguns and rations.  He asked if I wanted to join them as he was allowed to bring one friend.  

"This isn't like going to Hershey Park, Schmitty," I told him, "I'm staying with my family."

The baby is adorable, and I wish she really was mine, I was really hers, and this was a picture my wife took, my beautiful blue-eyed wife and my beautiful blue-eyed baby.

Mom called it car camping and always emphasized the distinction between it and what she termed real camping.