Charming shyness paired with a love of dancing the Charleston in heels in the street past midnight. I kissed her bloodied knees.

2 is the grade I was in when I thought I loved Lucy. 2 is the number of times Lucy was arrested for meth in a single day. 2 is the number of Xanies she must have taken the night she showed up to my welcome home party, because she was fucking sloppy.

In December 1969, the fate of thousands was discovered through televised lottery. All three-hundred and sixty-six days of the year, including the 29th of February, had been typed on one-by-four-inch

Jay arrived once a week, every week, for sex. He was a dental student, worked  Wednesdays at a clinic near my house so it was easy for him to call to see if I was free. I made sure that I was. He

During the pandemic, I became — and as someone with obsessive compulsive disorder, I don’t use this word lightly — obsessed with a TV show called Prodigal Son. The most important character to me, Lou

I know that I should be sad, or at least look sad, or somber, as I go through the things in Johnny’s room.

Maybe they know the malignancy of a living plant, like the soldier’s potted cyclamen or Sylvia Plath’s tulips, devouring the air, their red mouths filling the room with noise.

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.

It makes sense to me that what Britney Spears wants to fill her body with, what she wants to break apart with her teeth and let dissolve onto her tongue is sickeningly sweet, beautifully packaged things, meant to enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.

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

I remember the first time I saw The Conversation. I was probably fourteen or so, far too obsessed with the overly opinionated and obstinate author and film critic Harlan Ellison...

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.

He was a man who cried every time I sang or read a book aloud.

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

I stand in the aisle, electrified, and wait for the dead objects to speak to me.

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