Before Hannah can protest, I get out of bed, put on gray and pink checkered pants and a black top. Having romantic feelings for a woman is new territory; her laugh is all I can think about.
LaJoie dropped to their knees and shouted out the phrase "Oh dear god!"
He works out of that clinic on the corner of Sydney Road, opposite the 7-Eleven. After I visit him I often walk up the road and get an okay bánh mì from the closest vietnamese bakery.
Like Richie’s “Hello,” Adele’s “Hello” is also an ode to longing.
Under the pretense of repairing things, I go to prove I am not broken.
I will never read this essay out loud, so let me take some risks:
Almond, salmon, Episcopal, peony, Adidas, melancholy, mischievous.
In my head: Owl-mund, sal-MON, epic-SKO-poll.
I add force
Still though, that’s fucked up.
I agree, I say. It is fucked up.
I stand in front of this body-length mirror. The compression vest is gone, the drains are removed, and all the cushioning gauze has been peeled away; I’ve watched video after video of other
I’ve never run for political office and have no desire to run—which is not to say that I’ve never thought about it—but I do know what it is to move, to travel, to traverse, to go around for the sake of one’s ambitions.
The last time I dream of him, my dead ex-boyfriend asks me to stop bringing him back.
Usually, when I dreamt him alive, he didn’t speak. I’d sit next to him while he sorted mail. I’d watch him turn
When I mention this flash of sexual fluidity to people, it bothers them.
Felt, for a minute, like some façade had slipped, like a glitch in the matrix. Is this in fact the car we came in? Are we who we think we are?
I checked the rest of the house, but everyone was asleep. I had a brief moment of nothingness, of emptiness, and then terror bloomed.
The curtains opened, the ballerinas emerged, toes became violins, hands, trumpets, backs, cellos.
“Maybe your ears are broken,” my husband mused to me one night at dinner.
I was wearing headphones, eyes trained to study my plate, the sight of chewing as triggering as the audible noises.
They liked to brag. Who had the highest dose of anti-psychotic medication? Who had gone the furthest off the rails during a manic episode? And they loved to boast about their suicide attempts. Whose was the most gruesome?
When Tony died, I stopped recycling. The kind of power play that was both meaningful and meaningless.
I don’t write “I have the libido of a sloth” in my online dating profile. I don’t use my real surname now either.
The only reason I’ve seen Space Jam: A New Legacy so much recently is because I wanted to avoid talking to my wife.
Spring was months away; I could pretend peril didn’t exist.
“And then after I came out to my wife, she stumbled across People Can Change,” said the man from Fresno.
Don’t they let you? Don’t they ever let you lay down your head?
n the car, on the way to the hospital, I put my head in my lap and my hands over my ears, willing the city to disappear.
Marriage is often thought of as having little to do with eroticism.1
I met my husband while bartending in Oakland. He applied to be the new chef. Tattooed knuckles. Chubby cheeks. Full beard.
Love is like a museum. You have to look around, experience things, and then leave.
Garielle's longest, most peculiar, most particularized book. A sure-to-be collector's item. Delivery 4-6 weeks!
"Is this the actual diary you wrote at the time? The diary reads a lot like a novel, with its motifs of the murderess, the acupuncturist, etc." -Garielle Lutz, author of Worsted and The Complete Gary Lutz
