Maybe We Should Get Tattoos and Other Possibilities for Happiness
N. Michelle AuBuchon
I don’t know if my husband and I are on the way to church or a hangover.
I don’t know if my husband and I are on the way to church or a hangover.
The bass line to “If I Was Your Girlfriend” curled into a smaller ball and pulled the thin blanket in tighter.
Excise it. Use a cheese wire . . .
My man shocked me by pulling out dirty magazines with pictures of fat black women called Black Tail. He had had the mags concealed in an oversize manila envelope.
The Germans call it the downfall. The French call it sleep. The Polish just give you vague directions.
It’s also the story of a horse, which is a word but also a kind of animal.
All I wanted to do was tell some jokes at an open mic and look what I had to go through. I was running for my life.
Did it bother him that his only erotic recourse that evening would be to pretend masterpiece on her face? Yes.
Katie keeps a pet duck in her Echo Park garden house. We sit on the edge of her tub and she sings, 'You are so beautiful to me,' the Joe Cocker song.
and yes, I know how everyone beats up on StevenHawking, that he doesn’t do his thinking for himself, he had one good idea and that was that
We stood there, not knowing what to do, so he lowered himself to the floor to show me how he slept.
“Don't you get cold?”
“Only when it's windy.”
“You're in Wyoming.”
“I'll show
Babies from the Dry Counties became a fated élite. From the creamiest of breasts to organic kale pudding and Montessori kindergarten.
We were trying to figure out what a deer's home is called. A thicket? A glen?
The trouble with paddling is your arms get tired. I tell this to the girls but they don’t listen.
1. It was always ice. Ice: a word like a shard of glass shived in his ribs. The dark plain he was bound to travel. His paramour, his nightmare, his lost thumb. His vice.
You are a diagnostician, alert for symptoms: ridged fingernails, yellow eye-whites, swollen knuckles, broken capillaries.
Our town’s ordinance—passed in 1862—named the first-born son of each family Zebulon.
My ex, Mark, calls me at two in the morning to tell me he’s figured out what’s causing his problems.
Defenestrated again. On the way down I regret that it isn’t raining.
Is this new relationship self-sabotage in disguise, or is it the cure?
Garielle's longest, most peculiar, most particularized book. A sure-to-be collector's item. Not be be missed!