When reciting the Ten Plagues in Hebrew, we customarily dip our knives into our wine glass for each plague and set a drop of wine on our dinner plate.

Do we keep our husbands’ secrets,
or distribute them like sweets 
amongst ourselves?

I

am the only man to come to Las Vegas w/an ex-gf and not fuck her—arriving two nights early on my own to hike up in

One night—which was, as it turned out, my last night camming

But her coup de grace was when she started bringing a white boyfriend to our parties. He was a real champion. His name was John.

We started as open, NOT poly. This was a very important distinction to us, despite not having a working definition of either types of relationships. It was, we both agreed, substantially less cringe

I was still pouting over hometown boy, and neck-deep in an article about foiled wallpaper when I got a Facebook message from Preston. Could we get together? 

Like many who quit drinking, my mother became a proselytizer for sobriety.

Do I break up with my Venezuelan surfer and move back to Alaska? I debated. Or bring him to the U.S. and marry him?

he flashed a toothless grin, all James Dean California Cool, a tan blonde blue-eyed surfer type. I imagined him as the boys Lana sang about.

Sex would remain forever yoked to this school shooting, grief combined with an uncanny moment of clarity: life won’t be the same after this, regardless.

At night, we lay on unmoored mattresses, pressing hands over our eyes to block out spears of light from the street. We cursed our naked windows.

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

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

S and I were together nearly a year before the band really got back on the road. Their six-week tour started in Minneapolis.

I will feel like a bad country cover of a Kate Bush song.

> One of my favorite reading experiences was a book called "The Silent
> Woman" by the journalist Janet Malcolm; it was about the biographical
> treatments of Sylvia Plath and the impossibility of biography in general.

The stench of my high school ID lanyard hung around my neck like a noose for the rest of the school year, reminding me of my capacity for self-destruction.

As a baby dyke, I’d waded into sex and romance like a kid at a water park, slowly and then all at once. Now I was on the sidelines.

I get too drunk on a Tuesday night and tell him I want to marry him. We’ve known each other for six years.

1. There is a protective radius of ten feet on all sides of me.
2. I only know the name of one person in this room.
3. My body hair was groomed solely for this moment.

On the first day of my streaming career, I asked Gabe to come over to adjust the lighting design of my “set.”

Fifteen years before my autism diagnosis - the year I chopped off all my hair with jagged scissors - I hid a not inconsequential baggie of hash in my dorm room closet. I was, as always, trying to

I.

In third grade, we spend every lunch writing comic books together. We invent a cinematic universe of imagined worlds to rival Marvel's. I've known her since I was six, and I've known my sister

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