At three months shy of 36—one year past my baby deadline—I was nowhere near finding someone lasting

Wary, ever vigilant, we peered into the berries for the blind white cursor blinking in an ecstasy of juice, carving invisible holes from the inside out.

Wind, always strongest by water, whistles and whooshes, knocks a girl off her feet.

Jordan lit a post-coital cigarette and contemplatively stared at the ceiling.

“My ex was a Nazi,” he said.

“What?”

The room smelled like milk and sweat. I only got up for a few reasons; to crack a window, to change a diaper, to eat, and occasionally, to go for a walk.

You know what’s sad? When no one releases your sex tape.

And then there is the question of motherhood. And how it does or doesn’t fit into the feminist narrative, into our ideas of ourselves as liberated women.

Dear Jane,

The TikTok girls are mad at you.

I stared at the other campers, who stared into the center, screaming through their disbelief at what they were screaming.

So I wanted to bang this exvangelical guy and it's about to get worse:

We are a thousand couples. A million maybe.

The man wearing a Ray Lewis jersey doesn’t know who Ray Lewis is.

We beat Brock Shamos every day. We beat him with jump ropes we stole from Mr. Randall’s P.E. class

We are always looking for something to cure us of the pain of being made of fallible meat.

The first time I went to Paris, I was seventeen and stayed with a man who was thirty-three, Sylvain.

It sat in my wallet while I made out with a guy during the “Josie and the Pussycats” movie

I never mixed meth with hooking. Not once. I didn’t want to ruin it! (Meth, I mean.)

It’s August in Manhattan when we both decide to leave. You accept a job in LA and my boyfriend packs my life in a U-Haul and drives it to our new apartment together in Pittsburgh. 

When I toss

The funeral home gave me a special calendar to keep track of the Yahrzeit until 2034, but after that I will be on my own.

It is a miraculous thing, this audible sun.

Something about a synaptic neurotransmitter. You won’t really understand. 

But to write We thought is a fiction.
We always felt that…the moment you write this phrase, you have lied.

Our hypothetical date tomorrow is at a show for the band Tennis. I have never heard of them, but I trust him. I say I will work my magic to get us in.

The Barrington, CT Boston Market offers the creamy richness of all Boston Market feeding centers.

It was then that they strode past me. Mid-thought, my attention snagged on the powerful wisp of her. She wore a spandex outfit—itty bitty sports bra and bicycle shorts, her lean legs sprouting from chunky Filas.