Bob Dylan concert. Of course, Bob Dylan.

Death is not a proper noun.

They traded stories the way people pass a cigarette back and forth.

I return from a trip to Florida over the long weekend with my high school friends to my writers' workshop. We were in Miami to celebrate our collective 30th birthdays, and hit all my favorite things

“If you knew me, you’d already know the answer to that,” she said. We were fighting I realized.

He did whatever Lulu told him, but not in a desperate way and they started having fun together again.

Best writing advice you’ve received? 
Press on the bruise. 

I add “Ripple” to the playlist and cry, imagine her cradling my broken body the same way I held her own: like it was the world’s rarest treasure. Like I’d never let go.

The next day, she threatened to slit my throat in the dead of night, said my sheets would run redder than every last cunt in Orange County.

HOW COULD SHE POSSIBLY KNOW? How much her words would affect me?

There were all these portraits of me hung on the walls and they would dance on the frames,
 the shadow people that spiritually strapped my body to the mattress.

Freshly thirty and newly heartbroken, the second class of our writers' workshop found me at a very midlife crisis time in my life. On Monday, things ended with the man I thought I might

“You want to go to Heaven with me tonight?” Juniper delicately dropped one of the pieces of sandwich into her mouth.

The universe seemed filled with women, aside from my brother and I it was all women and they did everything and chatted amiably amongst themselves,

I couldn’t help feeling they abandoned me in our womanhood when it wasn’t their stop.

The cow udder, Freud wrote, was in its form a penis and in its nature a breast, and therefore the intermediary between penis and breast. The blowjob was therefore the image of innocence.

I arrived to England in a puddle of mortal pain caused by a breakup.

We had enough coke on us to keep the entire party going until sunrise, and when the late arrivals started trickling in, we got practical.

The distractingly beautiful former beauty editor asks me whether I've read Yoga by Emmanuel Carrere, which I have. "Why are you only asking her? Is this a gender thing?" Our teacher feigns offense.

I figured that Anthony must have been a false promise: handsome but bad in bed, or he led with a sweetness that carried a threat underneath it.

“No it’s not. Those are weird internet people. Have you tried making real-life friends?”

Un día me iré sin decir adiós.

You can measure out your life with coffee spoons and you can measure it by the way someone starts an email.

Book: Alice, or The Wild Girl

This has been a bad date that ended with a bad blowjob.

Cincinnati radicalized me.