My fantasy of Lockwood started to deflate like a balloon with a tiny hole.

She feels bad for being taken aback before; she really is a very nice doctor.

In the anatomy lab, we are peeing into cups to check for any abnormalities within the urine

/pəˈzeʃ.ən/

One morning I woke up with my right scapula in my mouth. You would think that is physically impossible, but in the case of demonic possessions it is actually more normal than not.

I tolerated Marcus and Haley because I knew their drill. Marcus would pick me up with drugs coursing through his system

My wife watched me walk headfirst into a mirror.

I reminded myself that I spent just as many lonely afternoons in the State Library of Victoria with a pile of international Vogues as I did at a Goodwill in the Valley.

I didn’t want to write this essay, but I know somebody will publish it and feel good about themselves for platforming a disabled voice.

Shit, is this what the Zoom room people mean when they say fantasy addict?

I am just a village idiot.

“You’re dirty,” you said to me, “I don’t kiss you because I think about how many dicks must’ve been in your mouth."

I was sobbing too loud for the men’s room and I was in no shape to explain myself so I settled on the supply closet next to it. After a couple minutes of moping I got a BBM (we had to have Blackberries then, for whatever reason) from Jarrett. “Were fuck are you bro?”

To begin abruptly: I’ve been some degree of suicidal since I was fourteen. I don’t think this makes me special. In fact, I think I’d be more of an individual if I’d always wanted to live.

A year wrapped in a day, a teardrop at the climax of every way that wounded, furthering the wounds.

That was the world then…

That was the world then….bawdy cars and tawdry thoughts and rundown wannabe skyscrapers brownie baked by the sun that just looked cheap against the horizon and everybody

The day I stopped being a woman was a hard-boiled egg kind of day. 

I hold myself in the plank position. The little dog sits on the rug watching. It’s a very expensive rug. She’s not supposed to be here. He’s up on the purple couch and I do not know what he is

I was zipped up to my nose in a sleeping bag, inhaling moist breath mingled with olfactory ghosts of campfires and wild sex past.

We paid the cover charge and stood among the young homosexuals of Columbus.

Becca, Ernie’s wife, estranged wife most of the novel until finally she is his ex-wife at the end, based on the author’s, based on Aaron’s, ex-wife, Elizabeth Ellen, who is, oddly, metally, writing these words, typing them into a Word doc at nine in the morning

I wake up glad to not be strung out.

I wonder how my drug dealers are doing.

-Editor at a literary journal attempting to be good, moral ppl (see: 1990s Christian Right)

I never wanted to run this ship. Frankly, I’d rather spend my time writing.

Now I bake bread to stay busy, to not think about dying.

He tells me he bought an ex girlfriend a $500 original copy of The Bell Jar. I say oh wow.