Fool people

It's so easy to fool people. These days, anyway.

All you need are the right credentials - a few documents, a few files and codes in the right databanks, and you're in. People accept you as a person. I mean, a handful of centuries ago, it was so much work, winning their trust. It took decades to craft a disguise, years of careful persuasion and research and diligence. And even then, the humans were still suspicious. You could look right, talk right, even smell right and they'd still carry a little piece of iron with them, keep some rowan in their homes, avoid looking you in the eye. They still worried you might not be what you seemed. There was so much fear.

But now, ha, it's easy. They're hardly aware of being human themselves, let alone worrying if the neighbor is, too. They rely on numbers. Little bits of data and they just relax, content with whatever lies you tell them about yourself.

I talked with a waitress about this recently, just before I ate her. She said she thought that people didn't examine themselves too closely because they're afraid they'll find a monster looking back. That maybe everyone's a little less human these days.

Maybe she was right. It's so easy to blend in.

Brief Encounters

It's always awkward when I run into him, even though I've technically known him for longer than anyone else. The first time was at Valley Forge; I wasn't born too long before that. I was bringing what few supplies I could find to the Continental troops--you know how teenagers love rebellion. Anyway, a camp full of cold, hungry, sick, miserable men probably isn't the safest place for a young girl alone, but I was too stupid to realize that. One soldier pulled me onto his lap, shoved his hand up my skirts (two fingers black with frostbite, I remember), and asked me to keep him warm that night.

Then he appeared. At the time he was a soldier, too. Tugged me up and sent me on my way.

I never properly thanked him, even though, like I said, I've encountered him several times since. Trouble is I don't know know him. I just see him places. We ended up working in the same dirty factory town in Massachusetts for a few years. I don't think he recognized me, though, despite a few meaningful glances I shot his way. Then there was that women's suffrage rally in New York, and that time he was across the street from me at a ticker-tape parade post-WWII. A sweaty little punk show in the 70's. Last time was at the bank. We might have seen a lot, but we still have bank accounts like everyone else.

It's not that I haven't ever talked to him. We shouted at each other for a bit at that concert. Turns out he's even older than I am. Came over from Europe. Saw the Holy Roman Empire, all that stuff. I don't know. I'm not very good at pre-me history.

He said there were a few others, but I haven't met them, at least not to my knowledge. There's no annual convention for people like me. I have no idea why it happens. My body got stuck one way and then stayed and stayed, and still stays. Same thing with him, I guess.

I'd ask you to remind me to thank him next time I see him, but I doubt you'll make it. No offense.

Bobbing

There's shrilling

about about

odd number of razor blades

I'm tired

Tired of

Tired of

cardiac arrest symptoms

brain aneurysm warning signs

vitamin c overdose symptoms

when I left

all old and sticky, and itchy

I didn't want grime and dust

in my skin

I had to stop myself.

I, an ancient rust bucket

a piece of crap

so proud

I wanted insomnia

the moment of falling asleep

like dying

Existing for much longer

awkward and familiar

What's the worst that could happen?

Bobbing for Apples

There's a part of my brain that keeps shrilling about germs and about the fact that there are an odd number of apples floating in the water and about the potential of hidden razor blades. But I'm tired of listening to it. Tired of being hostage to its Just in Cases and You Never Knows. Tired of the fact that WebMD is my homepage. Tired that my latest google searches have been "cardiac arrest symptoms," "brain aneurysm warning signs," and "vitamin c overdose symptoms."

When I was a kid, Halloween was my favorite holiday. My best friend and next door neighbor Ricky would always get store bought costumes of superheroes and stuff. He was Batman three years in a row. My mom and I would hit the thrift store and put together the best costumes. I was a cowboy one year, and a robot, and a dragon.

But at some point, it stopped being fun and started being work. The thrift store used to be this giant box of possibilities, like the transmogrifier in Calvin and Hobbes. I could walk in an average kid, but when I left, I'd be a scarecrow or rat or doctor or president. Slowly, though, it turned into a haunted house, and not the fun kind. The clothes were all old and sticky, and the air was itchy. I didn't want to touch anything, and every time I did, it felt like grime and dust was working its way into  the tiny lines in my skin. It was like I was getting slowly wrapped - mummified - in the cobwebby lives of all the clothes' previous owners. It was suffocating.

Ricky started to notice it, too. I'd have him over to play some video games, and we'd get in fights over who got to use the wireless controller. He thought I was just being selfish, but the wired controller was bad. I didn't know how to explain that holding it felt wrong, made me feel like I had to hold my breath to avoid breathing in its aura of badness. When we rode our bikes to the Walgreens for candy and cheap waterguns, sometimes I'd have to circle the parking lot a couple times before chaining up my bike at the rack because I needed to coast in at exactly the right angle. I knew he was frustrated and bored, but I couldn't stop myself.

Ricky and I stopped hanging out sometime in tenth grade. I think the last time was right after Ricky's dad got him an ancient rust bucket of a car for his sixteenth birthday. It was a piece of crap but Ricky was so proud of it. He picked me up just to cruise around town. I don't even remember what we talked about. I was just trying to keep it together and not think about the discolored stuffing that was coming out from rips in the seats, and the smell of old cigarettes, and all the fingers that must have touched the door handles. I think I was probably just sitting rigid in the passenger seat, because eventually Ricky dropped me off at home, said "You didn't have to come if you didn't want to, man," and sped off. We saw each other at school, or sometimes if we were both out mowing our yards, but he would carefully look in another direction.

My mom asked me a lot why I wasn't hanging out with Ricky, if something had happened, if anything was wrong. I wanted to tell her that the truth. That I loved and hated laundry day because the smell of the warm, clean clothes was safety but the hours it took to hang up my shirts (it's not sitting right on the hanger, the collar is crooked, the hanger is the wrong color) left me exhausted, defeated, and filled with shame. I wanted to tell her that sometimes I missed class because I couldn't get myself to step through the classroom doorway, or that I'd been plagued by insomnia for months because every time I drifted off, I would jerk awake, filled with panic because the moment of falling asleep felt like dying. That I missed my best friend. That I was starting to think there was something wrong with me.

I've been living in a holding pattern. Existing in a holding pattern. But I can't do it for much longer.

Yesterday, Ricky invited me to this Halloween party. It's the first time we've talked in over a year. I think maybe he's feeling nostalgic. We're seniors now, and pretty soon everyone we know is going to college, or moving to find work. I think maybe he's been thinking back to elementary school, when we'd compete with the other neighborhood kids to get the best candy.

It took me three hours to put together a costume from my closet. My mom tried to get me to go as a ninja, but the feel of her black polyester scarf over my face made me claustrophobic. Eventually I settled on being a Secret Serviceman. I just wore a suit and sunglasses and wore one earbud with the rest of the cord stuffed down the back of my jacket. Normally I don't like suits, because it feels like a restraint, but today it was armor.

I made it through the door on my fourth try. The party's in the basement of Ricky's girlfriend's house. It's kind of cheesy for a high school party. There's a playlist of bad Halloween music on, and bowls of candy corn and non-alcoholic lime punch with an ice cube in it that's shaped like a hand. I guess Ricky's girlfriend Alyssa is taking classes to be an EMT at the community college on Saturdays - she's pretty driven and healthy, so she doesn't drink much. But even so, people seem to be having fun. And, honestly, the school-party-style decorations make me feel almost normal, like when I was a kid.

I find Ricky - or Rick now, I guess - and he comes over. We talk a little, and it's both awkward and familiar. Things aren't the same, but maybe they're not as bad as I thought. We walk over to a table covered in shoeboxes that've been covered in black construction paper. There's a hole cut out of one side of each of them, with black fabric stretched across the top. It's one of those stick-your-hand-in-here-and-feel-something-gross things. One's labeled "Zombie Brains" and another "Ghost Eyeballs," which makes no sense but is just dumb enough to be funny. Rick dares me to reach in.

I look at him, wondering if he knows how hard this is for me. It's probably going to be damp, and other people have had their hands in it. I'll probably end up in the bathroom for the next twenty minutes, washing my hands with hotter and hotter water, worrying about using the towel on the rack because it might not be totally clean, waiting for my hands to air dry. I keep waiting to see signs of impatience or resentment or regret in Rick's face, like it was a mistake to invite me after all. But he's just looking between me and the shoebox, already amused at the impending joke. Alyssa joins us and says she knows the blind-touch boxes are silly but how it was always her favorite thing at Halloween parties when she was a kid.

What's the worst that could happen? It's something I've asked myself a billion times before about everything and it's never helped or worked before. But this is Ricky, and I'm here at a party, and life is going to be changing a lot soon no matter what I do, so I hold my breath and reach into the shoebox.

My fingers close on peeled grapes. I don't know what my face looks like, but Rick bursts out laughing. Not at me, but just happy at a good joke. And now my hand is occupying a huge amount of my brain, along with the internal neon sign that's flashing "WASH YOUR HANDS, WASH YOUR HANDS." The longer I don't, the more a sense of looming catastrophe builds. But Alyssa and Rick are smiling, and I realize that I'm smiling.

It's not like I'm suddenly okay. It still feels wrong to not immediately wash my hands. But I can handle it, at least for now.

And I'm staring into this metal tub, at the five apples left. All the apples with stems have already been fished out. These apples have no obvious handholds. Mouthholds. It's just going to be a matter of pinning one down at the bottom and sinking your teeth into it.

"BACTERIA. BACTERIA. BACTERIA." It's like a klaxon in my head. I don't want to get water up my nose, or have my head all wet, and I keep wondering if these apples were washed clean of pesticides before being dumped into the tub.

But I'm sick of the anxiety, the hesitation, the fear. The klaxon is still wailing and I still want to wash the sticky grape juice remnants off my skin, so I focus on one apple, one apple, one apple, the only thing in the world, and take a deep breath, and plunge.

And Eat It Too

They met online--an eighty-seven percent match. Pretty high, he thought. I want her to like me, he thought. So he made her a cake. Chocolate, because girls like that. Packaged powder mix from a cardboard box. Threw in an extra egg to make it softer, something his mom had taught him. He frosted it, placed it gently in a tupperware container. When she arrived at the bar, he set it on the table between them.

"Oh. That's so sweet. But I mean, I've never met you. Probably shouldn't take candy from strangers, you know?"

Until that moment, he didn't know.

He ate the cake that night on his couch, the whole thing, licked the frosting off his fingers, and he felt sick.

Sugar and Spice

when i want
i can make cakes
that will make you forget
all other cakes

when you eat it
little involuntary sighs
will escape your lips

you'll eat too much
even though you know
it'll make you sick
you won't be able
to help yourself

you'll look at me
in wonderment
amazed i'm capable
of such things
that i have this
sweetness inside

but i don't want to
make cakes for you

you don't deserve them

if you wanted cake
you should have
texted me back

Groceries

Rick could gauge Alex's moods by the items on their grocery list.

Onions meant he was comfortable, secure in their relationship, happy to make food that left him with smelly breath and the possibility of farts.

Brie meant he was feeling uncertain and needing to feel a little more grown up and sophisticated.

Lemons meant Alex was nostalgic and would probably want to watch John Hughes movies.

Blueberries meant he was guilty, sorry for hurting Rick's feelings and planning on making him blueberry pancakes and breakfast for dinner to apologize.

Fettuccine meant Alex was determined, about to embark on a big project (either personal or professional) and wanted to fuel up and access his don't-take-no-for-an-answer Italian mobster side.

Snap peas meant he was nervous about something and wanting the fidgety process of zipping away the fibers from the sides of the beans, snapping open the shell, popping out the peas, and crunching the cool crispness.

Lite sour cream meant he was feeling athletic and would soon drag Rick on another 5k.

Root beer meant Alex was celebrating something, that he'd be exuberant and effusive and even more affectionate than usual.

Sweet potatoes didn't mean anything. Alex and Rick just liked eating homemade sweet potato fries.

Running at Night

Jordan doesn't understand people who run in the morning. He tried for a few weeks, muscles tugging in the sick, weak sunlight, eyes too wet, stomach queasy. When his feet slapped the ground it felt all wrong, as though the concrete of the sidewalk weren't fully dry. Is any race worth that kind of ugliness? Is good health?

Mornings are for pillows, heavy blankets, the soft skin over a woman's hip and behind her ear. Mornings are for showers, long hot ones where you might forget to rinse out the conditioner. Mornings are for toast with lite cream cheese, black coffee, National Public Radio.

Nighttime is for running. Jordan feels faster with the dark slips off his sweat, more powerful with the cool air on his neck, the only heat emanating from his body and whatever remains in the pavement. He prefers the calm yellow glow of old dirty streetlights, of the moon.

The Alarms on Jane's Phone

Alarm: 5:55 am - Wake up and go running! Yay!

Alarm: 6:03 am- Seriously, you have to run

Alarm: 6:10 am- You know you need to run if you want to be Erica in that 5K

Alarm 6:20 am- Wake up now and you'll still have time to stretch!

Alarm 6:40 am- Shower

Alarm: 6:47 am- You want to look good for work, right? Get up and shower!

Alarm: 7:00 am- Still time for a quick shower!

Alarm: 7:15 am- Want to look better than Erica today? Get up now

Alarm: 7:30 am- Now you're going to miss breakfast too

Alarm: 7:45 am- Looks like it's a ponytail and no makeup for you today

Alarm: 8:00 am- YOU'RE GOING TO BE LATE FOR WORK!

Alarm: 9:00 am - Fuck it. "Sick" day!

Snooze

Alex missed the snooze function of his alarm clock. In college, he'd keep hitting that button until ten minutes before his 3pm lecture. He was a champion napper. And when he started seeing Jill, the desire to stay in bed was even stronger. They spent hours in the warm honey halfway state between sleep and wakefulness, luxuriating, each blissed out on the simple nearness of the other. The beeping of the alarm would make them ruffle, hands flapping sleepily toward the clock until it was quiet, and then they'd settle back down in a soft tangle of limbs and sighs.

Now, though, Jill got up early. She worked at an optometrist's office downtown and the commute was long. The alarm would go off, and instead of another ten minutes of stretching and fuzziness, she'd slip out from under the covers, brisk and efficient, leaving behind a little hollow that slowly cooled and erased itself.

Alex usually had an extra hour or so to doze if he wanted, but would watch Jill as she got ready for the day, stepping into the pantyhose that weren't necessary but which she wore because it felt more officey and businesslike, pulling her hair up and off her neck into a loose bun held sort of in place with three pins. On her way out, Jill would lean over and kiss Alex, a light touch that was more air than mouth that nonetheless bathed him in warmth - the feeling of safety and home.

But he could never fall back asleep. The space where Jill should have been always pulled at him like an undertow. Today, his arm wandered over to find Jill's shoulder but just met cool sheets. It felt like when you were a kid and had your feet sticking out of the sheets but then you noticed how quiet the house was and how dark the room seemed and what might be crawling out from under the bed to grab you by the ankle and drag you away screaming, so you pulled your feet under the covers even though it was too warm. It was like that. Alex pulled his arm back to his chest, hoping to shake off the chill, but the feeling followed him to work.

That night, over dinner, Alex asked Jill if they could play hooky, just once, and sleep in together with no schedule to keep, without worrying about being adults with important jobs. Jill went upstairs without saying a word. Alex washed up after dinner, but even the hot soapy water didn't dispel the cold from his hands.

By the time he climbed the stairs to their room, Alex was shivering. He pushed open the bedroom door, knowing he'd find Jill already asleep, or at least pretending to be asleep, her back turned and her shoulders hunched, her spine an unfriendly ridge telling him to keep his distance.

He slid quietly into bed, something dull in his stomach. Alex reached out and softly brushed Jill's shoulder. He meant to turn to his other side when he felt her uncurl. Her eyes peered out at him from under the comforter for a minute, and then she handed him something she'd been holding.

It was their alarm clock. The numbers were dark, and Alex followed the cord across Jill and to the wall, where the plug lay on the carpet. Alex looked back at Jill, who raised her eyebrows at him a couple times and yanked the covers over her head. Adam tossed the alarm clock onto the floor and joined her.

Not a Morning Person

"CHHHH dun-ch-dun-ch-dun-ch-dun-ch"

Josie swerves, almost hits the car in the next lane. The driver honks and she jumps again. 

It's that fucking drumbeat. Every time. Who makes Billy Idol's "Dancing with Myself" their alarm clock song? Someone who wants to make weekday mornings worse than they already are. Someone going through a dry patch. Someone bitter, but with a bleak sense of humor. Josie to a T. 

This was a few years ago. She's been seeing someone new lately, Danielle. They met in line at the bank. Danielle is an optimist, sunny all the time. Josie is constantly surprised she doesn't hate her. Danielle is soft, curvy hips. Whenever Danielle spends the night, Josie tries to avoid turning on the alarm clock at all. If she does have somewhere to be the next day, it's just a generic beep.

Josie should have known. About Billy Idol, that is. This has happened before with other songs. "Kiss Off" by Violent Femmes. Blondie's "Heart of Glass." Just a few notes and that's it. Whatever else she's doing, whatever else she's thinking--gone. She is alert, heart pounding. She is running late, even when she isn't. There is no snooze button in the grocery store, at the dentist's office, in the car. The early morning interruption lingers with her for hours. 

Dance like Elaine

If you want to test a relationship, dance like Elaine from Seinfeld

Preferably in a crowded place
Preferably at a black tie event

Really go for it. Bust out your thumbs and full body dry heave

Make sure you have enough space
Make sure you maintain eye contact

Everyone will stare at you, so be prepared for that. Own it

Some friends will pretend not to know you
Some dates will sneak out through the back

Let them go. You don't need that in your life. Keep dancing

Calloused

[this post has been removed]

Injuries

She looks up with those sad black eyes, all watery, as if to say, "you can't do this to me."

I would have agreed a year ago. Chad and I brought her home from the shelter, a fluffy little thing to love, easier than a child, cheaper. We bought organic dog food. We stocked up on squeaky toys. We let her sleep in our bed, curled up on our feet.

Shit all over the carpet, shredded cushions, toppled trash cans--these I dealt with as best I could. Chad rarely saw any of it--I cleaned the messes before he got home from work--and he loved his new canine companion so much that he easily brushed off my complaints. "Once I get that raise, I'll take her to training lessons," he'd promise, rubbing her pink belly. He never followed through, of course. 

I reach down to her, hold my bandaged hand in front of her face, remind her of her actions.

It had been too long, so I pulled Chad close to me. I kissed him, and we fell to the bed. My hand twisted through his hair, but it didn't feel good. It hurt, sharp, and I realized she had bit me. Holes in my skin, blood in his hair, on the yellow sheets. "Little bitch!"

Chad scooped her up. "You just scared her, that's all." He wrapped her up in his arms, kissed her ears, pressed his nose to hers. 

That was last night. Today I led her down to the basement with treats, since she doesn't come when I call. I led her right to the crawl space. I tightened a muzzle around her nose and jaw. I tied her paws together. We don't store anything back here--I doubt Chad even knows about it. I'll say she ran away. I propped open the door while taking out the trash. Stupid mistake. We'll drive around searching for her, check the local shelters, put up flyers. 

She looks up with those sad black eyes, all watery, as if to say, "you can't do this to me."

"No regrets," I reply. I shut the door.

Sorry, Sorry, Sorry

Sorry, but

Sorry, no

Sorry, the bus is running slow

Sorry, and

Sorry, not

Sorry, you don't have a shot

Sorry, who?

Sorry, why?

Sorry, I won't say goodbye

Sorry, how?

Sorry, can

Sorry, shit has hit the fan

Sometimes the only thing to do
Is just say sorry and push on through

sorry not sorry

I get these heart palpitations sometimes. I'm actually not sure if they're palpitations - it's never been diagnosed. What it feels like is a skipped heartbeat, like the muscle is staying squeezed for too long, doing these quick little knifelike flutters for a half a second before resuming its normal pace.

It happens when I'm stressed, or anxious, or angry.

It's happening now, but I'm not stressed or anxious.

I'm angry. And sad. And ... furious at this crushing sense of helplessness, at the feeling of having no agency, no real ability to directly and immediately change the problem.

A friend of mine just wrote about being catcalled - no, about being sexually harassed, because "catcalling" has a jaunty, silly, just-having-fun sound to it - by her neighbor as she was walking home. She was shocked and disgusted, and kicked herself for not having a quick clever comeback, and didn't know what to do with the rage the instance caused, and was afraid because this man lives five houses away from her.

I don't know a single woman who hasn't experienced something like this. I literally can't think of one. I can't count the stories friends have shared with me, stories that feel like deja vu: requests from strangers to just smile, baby; men on public transit rubbing themselves while they stare at your tits; casual remarks made about your body so you feel like wearing eight layers of sweaters every time you step outside; strangers following you down the street while you try to convince yourself that you're just being paranoid but knowing that the fear is there for a reason and that it's not totally illogical and hating that you have to fight yourself and feeling guilty for feeling afraid.

What's infuriating is that people do these things without shame, without any sense that this is a shitty way to treat another human being who has thoughts and emotions.

What's infuriating is the fear I and many women feel which prevents us from calling these people out - what if I say something to them that reminds them I'm a human, and what if that makes them feel ashamed and then angry and then what if that anger makes them violent (because lashing out and making the bitch shut up is easier than examining one's own flaws and admitting that one has been a supreme asshole)?

What's infuriating is the culture that dismisses these things as being "just how life is," protecting harassers and pushing the recipients of this harassment into silence, telling them to "deal with it" or "get used to it".

What's infuriating is that I can't force clarity and understanding and empathy into the minds of harassers. I wish I could Professor X them into realizing why doing and saying that shit is a terrible way to treat people.

What's disappointing, but fixable, is that even intelligent, kind, well-meaning people can be hugely unaware that this is something their daughters, sisters, friends, girlfriends deal with all the time.

And that seems to be the only solution: making people aware that this bogus unbelievable shit still happens, all the time, without any fear of social judgment or consequence. Once people are aware, things can change. Once people understand, the culture can change.

I was supposed to write a story, but this is what I'm giving you instead. I'm ... never mind. I was going to say I was sorry, because it seemed like the polite thing to do, but politeness is going to have to excuse me today. No apologies for saying what needs to be said.

My heart's still palpitating (or whatever). But I'm hoping it won't have to for long.

Lifetime Guarantee

I was six. Mama and I pressed our fingertips together, our index fingers. I ticked her pulse aloud: tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Then she ticked mine: tickticktickticktick. I got scared because mine was so fast. Mother and daughter should match, I thought. I held out another finger, the littlest one, made her pinky swear I wasn't dying. She told me everyone dies someday, but she swore I wouldn't go that day. I made her promise me the same thing every day, and she did, until I was about twelve, when I decided I was invincible. What I wouldn't give now for such a guarantee.

Palm to Palm

When it's too hot
to shake hands
I want to just reach out

Reach out and touch
the pad of my index finger
so it meets with yours

Your whorls will line up
with mine and vice versa
It will be like E.T.

E.T. if he just didn't want
to touch someone else's
sweaty, sweaty palm

Because it's just too hot

Walls

In the house where I grew up, the walls of my bedroom were sticky. Not sticky enough to trap bugs, but sticky enough to keep dust and hairs. Sticky enough to pull a little on my fingers when I touched it.

The wallpaper was old and yellowing, a dusty pink and green floral pattern crossed with beige pinstripes. The wall glue had saturated the paper. Sometimes when I lay in bed in the summer, with lazy late-day orange sunlight filtering in through the gauzy white curtains, I'd reach out and stick my fingers and palm to the wall. Stick, peel, stick, peel, stick, peel, just sleepily feeling the soft tug as my skin parted from the paper. I'd turn onto my side and study the repeating patterns, turn this rosebud and that leaf into a happy face with crazy spaceman hair. Even back then I needed to wear glasses, so the flowers on the walls were blurred and vague, edges fuzzy and gentle like my stuffed animals.

The paper had a smell. Not a musty, coiling, basements-and-attics smell. Not a chemical smell, either. It was old, and comfortable, and a little bit dusty and fragile, like an old book you've read so much it has soup stains and wiggly water-warped pages and the dolphin bookmark you bought from the book-order in fourth grade still stuck in it. It was the smell of my bed and home.

At friends' houses, I'd run my hands lightly across walls that weren't sticky. They felt smooth and cool and indifferent. They didn't care if you touched them, didn't help keep a grip when you put out a hand to steady yourself. They were crisp and pretty and clean, so all you could do was smudge them up.

We moved out of that house when I was eleven. I heard the new owners pulled down the old sticky paper and painted the room a fashionable icy blue and put a saltwater fish tank in there, and now it's a home office.

Reaching and Hearing

I heard the noises in the vent night after night, but I couldn't reach up there. I was only eight. I told Aidy but she didn't believe me because I had imaginary friends. Thing is, I knew they were imaginary, my friends, and why would I make up noises as awful as all that? Squeaks like when the dentist takes that skinny metal pen to your teeth, only I could feel the sounds in my belly somehow, bouncing, like marching band drums in July. I told Aidy, but she wouldn't listen. Her room was next to mine, but she couldn't hear a thing. She didn't hear when I dragged a chair inside one night, didn't hear it wobbling as I stood on the seat. She only heard me when I burst into her room squalling, and my face was wet, and so was my hand. Even with that chair I couldn't reach all the way, and whatever it was only got away with the tippy top of my middle finger. I guess that was enough. Aidy let me sleep in her room for a couple months, and I couldn't hear, and I turned nine, and when I moved back in I still couldn't hear. I knew I could probably reach, with the chair, but I couldn't hear, so I didn't try.

Itch

It didn’t even hurt when Kyle broke his arm. There was a popping noise like opening a can of Coke right as his bike crashed, and then he woke up in the hospital with his dad checking emails in the corner and a bright green cast.

What keeps him up at night is the itching. There’s a place, right below his elbow that he can’t reach. Kyle’s tried everything: pencils, rulers, a bent-up wire hanger, a stick from the yard, but nothing satisfies.

He lies awake at night, imaging the small colony of dead skin growing, colonizing his whole elbow, then working his way down his forearm, up his hand, between his fingers.

When they take off this cast, his arm will molt like a snake.

He’s really looking forward to it.
--by Gena Parsons

Bandage

Jessa sometimes wears bandages to work, to the grocery store, to her Weight Watchers meetings, to dates.

She almost never needs them, but she likes the look of them. Neat white gauze wrapped around her elbow. A smooth tan bandaid affixed to the heel of her palm. A butterfly closure sitting delicately on her cheekbone.

It's not the attention or sympathy that Jessa likes. Mostly people don't ask; strangers are too polite, and her coworkers have figured out that there are usually no injuries beneath the bandages. And she doesn't wear them to hide, or conceal. What Jessa likes is the ritual.

She dips her fingers into the clean white bowl of cotton balls, separating one piece of fluff from the rest.

Then she pours a little rubbing alcohol onto it, and she loves the feel of the swift coolness spreading through the ball, making it collapse into a soft pad.

She dabs the alcohol onto whatever is being bandaged, smearing a circle of evaporation, breathing the sharp clean vapor.

She either pulls a crisp paper wrapper apart and drops the curls into the trash, watching as they flutter on the way down, or she unwinds a length of gauze with small, deft turns of her wrists.

She places the bandage with care, setting the adhesive firmly against her skin, or tucking the ends of the woven cotton strip neatly under itself.

At the end of the day, the feel of the bandaid peeling slowly off her skin makes her arms and scalp erupt in goosebumps. When she unwraps the gauze from around her wrist, or ankle, or knee, the revealed limb feels small and free.

Allergies

My mother told me I didn't have allergies, but I am certain that I am allergic to dry dead grass and dry powder sunlight and dry blue sky, blue like the bottom of a drained pool. Some call it paradise, but the mountains make me itchy--or maybe they don't, but they are persistent and persistence is itchy. That may be why I've never had a girlfriend--much to my mother's chagrin--and it may be why I've never held a job for more than four months--take my word for it, allergies are not a good excuse to skip your shift--and it may be why I prefer rain and snow, especially snow, glittering like it's fake, cubic zirconia like they have in all the casinos here, but heavy and wet and concealing.

Revert/regress

When sick, I revert. Not to childhood, but to the latent small-mammal-huddling-in-the-woods that still lives somewhere in my genes.

I get the urge to burrow, to build warm humid dens of blankets and pillows. All I want, when my Eustachian tubes get itchy and my head feels like it's lined with flannel and my glands start to get tender and swollen, is to hide out from the universe, wait out the storm, curl up, cower, comfort. I just want to build a soft bubble, as much to protect others from my sickness as it is to hide inside. 

But I live out here in the plains at the feet of mountains, and the air is crisp and dry like a good cider, or a nice white wine if you like wine. It's hell on my raw nose, makes me aware of my bronchial tubes. I'm a human living in a human house and working a human job, and it's bad manners to listen to the internal little mammal.

I sit neatly on the couch with only one blanket, and drink tea, and dose myself with NyQuil, and accumulate a fine dusting of scrunched up tissues around me, and watch Netflix like the civilized animal I am.

Nocturnal Topography or Things That are on My Bed (Not Including Me)

Sheets and pillows of course, and a blanket that my grandma made for me when I graduated high school, and a blue nightgown balled up in the corner that my ex-boyfriend gave me which I pretended to love, but it's actually really itchy so I never wear it (except for laundry day), and my laptop which stays on while I sleep and beams bright white light into my dreams, and the Important American Novel that I am trying to read, and the romance novel with Fabio on the cover that I am actually reading, and the envelope my last gas bill came in and at least three pens and the sparkly clutch that fits either my wallet or my phone but not both, and down at the bottom a plate that used to have a sandwich on it which i ate in bed after work yesterday while watching Seinfeld, and my calendar open to three weeks from now because that's the time I want it to be.

So I would invite you to stay, but there isn't any room.

Notebook

How dare you lay
your notebook
next to me?
Open:
bright white paper eye
blank ink scribble tongue
Why shouldn't I look?
You dare me to look
is to know is
to know
you

Synesthesia

You associate colors with things that don't have color (or, sometimes, with things that don't even have shape, or form, or substance).

White with snow - but not how snow looks, how snow feels when it's just invisible sparkles in the air and small enough that, when you breathe in, the little shocks of cold hit the back of your nose and freeze the hairs inside

Red with the urgent and unexpected sudden-kid-need to pee

Orange with staying up all night to do something unpleasant: homework or cleaning or packing or throwing up the remains of the party because you're apparently too old to drink like that anymore and you can't just self-medicate with greasy food and be okay

Yellow with the crayon and powdery uncooked rice smell your kindergarten classroom had

Green with your frustration at the way cheap shiny fabrics snag on the tiny whorls of your fingers, when what you want is for your hands to glide smoothly and coolly across the surface

Blue with the limp warm feeling you get after stretching in bed on weekend mornings

Indigo with stickiness, and - separately - with guilt

Violet with the tingling moment of silence right after lightning flashes

Pink with how wearing sandals makes you aware of your toes

Black with the memory of burying your face in the silky patient neck of the dog you had as a kid, and with forgiveness

Rings

When he was stoned, Matt believed if he cut off the tip of his finger it wouldn't bleed. He would be able to cut through it with a butter knife and it would be like slicing a piece of cheese, and on the inside of the digit there wouldn't be muscles and nerves and veins, but instead it would be smooth and covered in concentric rings, like a tree. One for each year of life.

He could look at the rings and see that he was fat when he was 8, but impossibly skinny when he was 18, because one would be bigger than the other. The year he dropped out of high school would be slightly darker than the rest, and the 13th ring would have the faintest shade of green because that's when he started smoking pot. 

Matt wanted to know what his friend's rings would look like, how the events of their life left marks that could only be seen by them. He could never ask them though. They wouldn't take it seriously. They wouldn't care like he did. 

The Finger

"How's your finger?"

"I think it's going a little green."

Kyle left the kitchen, wet dishtowel still in hand, and joined Vanessa on the couch. He placed his palm beneath hers and inspected her finger, the towel a barrier between them. "I can't believe you still haven't taken care of this."

"It's just a bug bite."

"It's squishy. I don't think bug bites make your fingers squishy."

"What do you know about it? When did you become an entomologist?" Vanessa cupped the digit to her chest.

"Let me see it."

"No. It's mine. Miiiiine."

Kyle didn't like it when Vanessa spoke like a little kid, but she seemed to think it was cute. It was a habit he'd noticed only after they moved in together. "You should go to the doctor."

"They'll cut it off."

"That's ridiculous."

"You don't know. When did you become a doctor?"

"Cut it out, Ness."

"You want them to cut it off. You never liked that finger."

What the hell was she talking about? Kyle worried that it was worse than he'd thought; maybe there was some sort of venom oozing into her brain.

"You never liked that finger. You won't kiss it. You don't want it in your mouth."

"That's not true."

"Prove it." She held her hand forward regally, the questionable finger drooping slightly below the others.

Was it going green? Perhaps--the whitest of greens, the green of seedlings shoving their fragile stems through the dirt. At least he thought it was that kind of green. When did he become a botanist?

Vanessa moved her hand closer to his face, wiggled the finger as much as she could. "Prooove it. What are you, chicken?"

Though his stomach heaved, he jerked the finger to his lips, then into his mouth. He wrapped his tongue around it and licked and sucked and bit and all the while Vanessa squealed, "you're hurting me, you're hurting me."

Beard of Knowledge

I've been sitting here, trying to put off the moment when I'll have to prep the organs for today's dissections. Two sheep lungs and three sheep hearts, laid out clean and neat on little blue mats so museum visitors - I mean, guests, we're calling them guests now - can squawk and exclaim over how cool/gross/weird they are.

One of my coworkers tells people that instead of going "Eewww, gross!" they should just stroke their non-gender-specific Beard of Knowledge and say, "Hmmm, interesting," instead, because that's what you do when you're a scientist.

Ultimately, the whole process doesn't really bother me. Mostly it's just tedious. Pulling the organs out of the freezer the day before, thawing them in the fridge overnight, setting up the trays.

These sheep did not get out much; there is an alarming amount of fat stuck to their pericardia, and I have to pull it all off, leaving the resilient, translucent membrane intact. Leechy elastic black blood clots need to be picked off and discarded. There's jiggly tissue to be removed with increasingly dull dissection scissors so the trachea is nice and clean, rings of cartilage clearly visible. And then I need to rinse warm water down the trachea, removing most of the blood, mucus, and foam so the demonstrators can cut all the way down into the bronchial tubes, laying them open so guests can see the tiny branches heading off into the spongy lungs.

The worst part isn't the feel of the pink squishiness of the lungs through my gloves. It isn't even the smell, which is bloody and sweet at times and slow and sour at others. It isn't the soft, crackly, fizzy sound that the distressing pink foam makes when it hits the sink as it spouts out of the trachea.

The worst part is the two thymuses, one on the pericardium and one at the top of the trachea. They're part of the immune system, these little loose bags of fatty, runny tissue that are mottled greyish yellow and pink and feel like they're full of gravy and bits of crushed jello and those cotton balls that give dry squeaks when you pinch them. Whenever I can, I cut them off with the scissors, but sometimes they're situated in a way that requires me to grab them and pull them off. Those days, I finish prepping because I'm a professional, and then I go sit in the office and watch videos of baby sloths and anteaters and corgis on my phone until the ghost sensation is washed out of my hands and brain.

I always finish the lungs first, because the hearts are easy.

Three hearts, cut three different ways: one is laid open and pinned, showing off the valve dividing the left atrium from the left ventricle; one is sliced like a loaf of bread from top to tip; one is cut in half and stowed in plastic baggies so guests can pass them around.

The hearts are fun, in a macabre way, because rinsing them clean means sticking the end of the tubing attached to the faucet into one opening and shooting water out another. They're like water guns that are incidentally made out of muscle.

Sometimes when I'm running warm water through a heart to finish defrosting it and to rinse away blod clots, the water will catch in an atrium or will circle through the ventricle and push the valve closed, and the whole heart jumps in my hand. I know it's not actually beating, not actually an electrical process happening; I know it's just a mechanical coincidence of water pressure and angles. But it's a reminder that this isn't just a cut of steak - this was a heart. This, just a little bit ago, beat and pumped and kept something alive.

Most days I can just prep the organs and that's it. A job completed, moving on to the next task. But some days, like when a lung is very, very small, or when a heart shudders in my hand, it's suddenly more than that. It's suddenly horrifying, or suddenly sad, or suddenly mesmerizing in the complexity of its structure and the circuitousness of its function. Sometimes, when I find a lung that's half purple with bruises, all I can think about is the cruelty of how these sheep were raised and slaughtered. Sometimes all I can think about is how amazing it is that meat found a way to survive in the universe, and that I'm meat using my meat to understand and see my relationship to other meat. Sometimes all I can think about is how much I wish I could switch off my sense of smell because this lung is going a little green.

I get caught up in moral dilemmas. The sheep are being slaughtered for food, so we might as well use their organs to help people understand what a fascinating, complex machine their own bodies are. I think animals should be treated humanely, and that when they are slaughtered it should be quick and clean and painless. I think we should all learn to do with eating a little less meat and a few more grains and vegetables. I also understand the need for specimens in order to teach about biology. I think helping people see how similar we all are on the inside, how much evolution is a fact of life, how important it is to understand the functions of their own bodies, is always worthwhile. Are there alternative ways to demonstrate all this?

Dealing with so much death in order to teach about life starts to strain the cognitive-dissonance-muscles after a while.

Hmmm, interesting.

Callused

With each
prick
and gasp
and perfect
pearl
of blood

I think of Nana
threading a needle
without looking
at the eye

Never
slipping

No small
round
red stains
on her
stitches

Her fingers
refusing to
bleed

Protected by
years
of mistakes

To Be Reasonable

It was one of those mistakes, the kind your mother warns you against, the kind for which the internet ridicules you, and Amy knew it was one of those mistakes, but she did it anyway. She got his name tattooed along her collarbone because she wanted it to hurt as much as her desire. He always made smart observations in class, with a dazed look in his eyes and a half smile on his lips--sort of like he was high, but he didn't do that too often. Sometimes he held multiple pens between his teeth, so Amy thought it was love. He told her to be reasonable, so she got it tattooed in black ink, Times New Roman.

That summer he moved back to California.

Now Amy digs at the tattoo with a safety pin because she wants her insides to be as hard as scar tissue, and because she wants to remind herself how ugly mistakes can be. Don't worry: she ran a lighter over the pin first.

Tish & Leo (a second vignette)

Tish and Leo built nooks and hideaways into their home.

Some were simple - easy mysteries tucked into corners or between books, like the tiny portraits of strangers Tish painted and hid behind each of the laundry chute's little brass doors, or the old armchair Leo wrestled into a largish closet in the hall. He called it the smoking room and insisted on keeping a ratty old paisley bathrobe ("A smoking jacket!" he'd laughed when he spotted it at the thrift store) draped across the back of the chair. Whenever their dog, a retriever-something mutt named Cheesecake, would go missing, they invariably found him behind the winter coats, curled into a happy dog-doughnut on the worn leather seat.

Some of the nooks were projects they tackled slowly in stolen hours when they got home from work. Tish wanted a solar, a holdover wish from a childhood spent reading books about castles. Up in the attic, she scrubbed away dust and cobwebs, chasing out the shadows. She dug at the joins between floorboards with a pin and sanded the rough window sills, ancient desiccated grime kicking up into the air and settling softly on her hair.

Leo brought up a mess of extension cords and power tools and half price Ikea shelving. He divided the attic into a sitting room and a secret study with a hidden entrance, putting up bookshelves as walls. Sometimes Leo would stop mid-construction to sketch out improved plans for making one of the shelves into a hidden door. Whenever she heard the skritching of his pencil across his notebook, Tish would watch Leo out of the corner of her eye, falling in love with the look of concentration on his face (which was made slightly ridiculous by the forgotten nails and screws still sticking out of his mouth) and the careful, deliberate motions his hands made as he drew their secrets in bold charcoal strokes.

Playtime Again

I thought about
blankets draped over chairs

I thought between the counter
the couch,
the computer table,
the breakfast nook,
room upon room upon room

explore their labyrinth
get lost, giggling

I felt like playing

I thought about everything
that made me feel better.

Playtime

I thought about when I was a kid and what made me happy and I thought about blanket forts. Did you ever make those? Blankets draped over chairs and tables and all? Well I thought I'd do one better and knit them a fort. Knitted arches high over knitted carpets, long knitted hallways between the counter and the couch, the computer table and the breakfast nook. I knitted it green and yellow because red's my favorite color and I wanted to save that yarn for myself. It didn't take me as long as you'd think. I'm pretty fast. I learned it on my own, too, from an online tutorial. So I knit room upon room upon room for them to crawl around and explore, their own little labyrinth to get lost in--there were no entrances, of course. I knitted it shut right behind their tiny round butts and they were giggling and I felt like I could breathe for once. It didn't last long, though. Soon they got hungry or something, and their pink mini-fingers found their way through the holes and started tearing the walls apart. Their hands were grimy because I accidentally knitted the dog food inside and I guess they were playing with it. As they ruined all my hard work I thought about how you don't really have to love everything that comes out of your body, like poop or earwax, and that made me feel better.

the inside

1.
Your eyes leaf bright or
tired like moss and grey
Prairie gold or
thunder torn sky
The sharp cool change
like seasons
like seas
You say
The color on the inside
stays the same

2.
Veins thread through
the skin of
your hands
lines blue and green
Like ghosts like
knitted arches
twisted branches
like cathedral windows
Holiness
in the blood

3.
You twist like trees in wind
Soft cracks and soft
pops of pockets
of air and fluid
between
Your vertebrae
as they settle
gentle
into place
The sound of home

Entry Rules for the 1007th Annual Underworld Spelling Bee

Before registering for the 1007th Underworld Spelling Bee, please make sure to read the entry rules in full.

1. Demons entering the contest must be between the ages of 50 and 400. Demons over 400 and lost souls are NOT permitted to enter.

2. The entrance fee is the 150 screams from lost souls. Participants are encouraged to collect their own screams. If a participant is unable to afford the entrance fee, please contact the Marquis Naberius.

3. The will be held in the area on the 9th level of hell on June 6th at 6:00 pm. Participants must arrive by 5:00 pm to register and receive their number.

4. Participants must be accompanied by a demon over the age of 800.

5. All words and spellings will be taken from the Lesser Keys of Solomon, first edition.

6. All spellings must be given in Sanskrit. Using other alphabets or languages will result in disqualification.

7. Prizes will be awarded for 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place. The prizes are as follows:

1st: 1000 screams from lost souls, 1 trip to the surface world (3 days, 2 nights, meals and hotel included), and a signed photo of Lucifer
2nd: 500 screams from lost souls and a signed photo of Lucifer
3rd: 250 screams from lost souls and a signed photo of Lucifer

8. Participants who do not place will be banished to the Forest of Suicide to live as a withered tree for 15         years.

We encourage all young demons to participated in the 1007th Underworld Spelling Bee, one of Hell's proudest traditions. All questions and concerns may be directed to the Marquis Naberius. He can usually be found guarding the entrance to Hell in the shape of a large, 3-headed dog.

The High Council of Demonic Academic Excellence wishes all of our contestants the best of luck. See you June 6th!

Internet Lingo of the Damned

Our chatrooms are haunted places with black backgrounds and blue text. The connection is bad, so sending messages can take an eternity. We drag down the phrases we used to know; they suffer with us.

2nite means always and 2moro is a sick joke. IDK is wishful thinking--we cannot help but know.

IMHO: If Mephistopheles had overheard...
FWIW: Fell when I was...
LOL: Living our loss

404 is not simply a nuisance.

Spirit Days

My self-summary

Hi I'm Danielle! I'm a nurse at City Hospital in the cardiology wing. You could say I know alot about hearts ;)

What I'm doing with my life

Working hard but also playing hard! I love going to the bar with my gfs after work, I am the karaoke queen. I'm working on getting a bachelors degree so I can be a nurse practitioner someday.

I'm really good at
Karaoke lol. I am actually really good at grilling stuff. Like, hamburgers and crazy stuff like pineapples. Seriously it sounds weird but I promise it's super delicious!

The first things people usually notice about me
My red hair. Usually I'm in my scrubs so I guess people notice that.

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
I don't get to read alot unless you count text books! My favorite movie is The Breakfast Club and my favorite TV show is New Girl. I like 90's music like Ben Folds Five and Barenaked Ladies, and I also even still love N*SYNC and the Spice Girls. Lol! I will eat anything but I have a bad habit of eating to many french fries!

The six things I could never do without
My friends. My family. My phone. My car. My puggle Chipper. Margaritas!

I spend a lot of time thinking about
Fashion. I know it's weird and it's not like I'm super into clothes or whatever. But I always think about how when I was a kid and we had spirit days at school and we got to dress up like the 70's and the 80's and everyone had on bell bottoms. Or leggings with cropped sweatshirts and big hair. I look at stuff like ombre or hipster clothing and I like to imagine about what kids will wear for spirit days in the future when their supposed to dress up like the 2000's or 2010's. Ok lol now you think I'm crazy!

On a typical Friday night I am
Working probably! Otherwise I like to hang out with my friends at Charlies or else sit on the couch with Chipper and watch a scary movie.

The most private thing I'm willing to admit
Most of my friends who are nurses believe in ghosts because you see a lot of crazy unexplainable stuff at the hospital, but I don't! I do believe in reincarnation though.

I'm looking for

• Guys who like girls
• Ages 22-32
• Near me
• Who are single
• For new friends, long-term dating, short-term dating

You should message me if
You like to laugh, have fun, and play with adorable puggles.

Can't Drive 55

The best part of Jen's morning is the man with the Oldsmobile. It's a car full of swagger in the beige neighborhood, the engine roaring even at 25 mph, the gold paint straight out of the 70s, a relic from her senior year of high school.

Every day, he drives past the coffee shop blaring ZZ Top or Foreigner like the car itself is laughing in the face of the new-age bullshit she has to play for the novelists who spend all day with their Mac books and small coffees, trying to be the next Hemingway.

Jen wants to leap over the counter, pulling her hair out of her ponytail and run to that car. By the time she gets there she'll be wearing a jean jacket with padded shoulders and her hair will be teased beyond all recognition.

The man won't even look at her as she climbs in through the window. He'll just turn up the radio, Sammy Hagar screaming as they drive off towards the past.

Accident

It's that guy

You realize when you step out of your car to get a better look at the damage. You didn't curse when you rear-ended him, but now you wish you could, because he's getting out of his Volvo and you realize

It's that guy

That guy you went on an OkCupid date with six months ago. You thought he was cute enough, and his profile said he liked stargazing, so you went out to the desert at night to do precisely that. You drove out to the desert in that very Volvo, the one whose bumper you've just lightly crushed. You drove out there with a blanket and a bottle of red wine and you thought this is exactly the kind of thing my mother warned me not to do and you thought it is a decent place to dump a body and you thought at least I'll die in a beautiful place, beneath the stars.

You didn't die, though.

In fact, you thought the date went pretty well. You made out for a while, and even though he was slightly too enthusiastic with his tongue, you weren't about to complain. But he never called you again, and you got angry with yourself for going out with a guy who lists "stargazing" as one of his interests, because how cliché is that? 

That guy doesn't remember you. He's pissed, but he keeps his voice down. For a moment you wonder if you should remind him. You decide against it. You exchange insurance information. He drives away.

You examine the front of your Oldsmobile. Barely a scratch. That thing's going to last forever.

Orion

"I don't get constellations."

You stop in the middle of trying to get the wobbly zipper of your jacket to work (it never zips higher than like two inches up from your belly button, which makes you look totally dorky but you always forget until you've already started zipping, and then it doesn't seem worth it to undo it) to stare at your best friend, Jamie. "What?"

"Was everyone insane, or what?" Jamie gestures skyward. "It's dots. Not hydras or princesses or warriors."

"I mean, you're supposed to imagine them," you say slowly, worried that your friend is a lot dumber than you previously thought, but not wanting to say so right away.

"Uh, no shit. But, come on - that's clearly a box. That's a line. That's another lopsided box thing. What kind of idiot looks at Boxy McSquiggle and is like, 'Gee whiz, what a swell magic hunter man! Willikers!'"

You can't help but get a little defensive. Since you first figured out the concept of constellations (you have this memory of learning about them in fourth grade, but that can't be right, can it? you must have known about constellations before then), you've always had a soft spot in your heart for Orion. It was the first constellation you knew how to identify. His belt, the bow in his hand, his faithful dog, Sirius.

"Probably someone who had an imagination," you say, trying to inject as much acid as you can muster (which isn't much) into your voice.

"Probably someone who had way too much time on their hands, you mean," Jamie says, too focused on being clever to notice your attempt at sarcasm.

You sigh, because you're not really mad at Jamie. You never are. Sometimes you think being Jamie's friend is kind of like being a constellation yourself: you're pretty interesting and you've got some neat stories, but someone's gotta be pretty invested to find out about them, and - besides - you kind of pale in comparison to the loud, colorful carnival that is Jamie.

Jamie snickers. "Ha, look, those stars down there below his belt make up his dick."

"It's Orion's sword," you say.

"How's it hanging, Orion?" Jamie crows. "To the left!"

Horoscopes: Who's your celebrity love match?

too bad you're not Matt Damon
        or Zac Efron
        or Kim Kardashian
        or any Libra, really

because then we would date

we could go to the zoo
        you could try and impress me with
        facts you learned from
        Steve Irwin

you could take me to the carnival
       and bribe the ride operator to stop
       the ferris wheel just like in
       The Notebook

because all girls love The Notebook

we could go dutch
it would be no big deal

but it's not in the stars

sorry.

Cons and Cons

I hardly think not changing the toilet paper roll is grounds for divorce. If we're going to fuck all this up, surely we can think of a better reason.

Like how I watch so much porn. Women aren't supposed to like that, right? Of course, you always watched it with me, which is one of the major reasons I married you in the first place.

Maybe that's a good excuse. "I find it hot that you like porn" probably shouldn't be a major reason for marriage.

You probably thought I loved you.

That probably pisses you off.

Or what about your cat? You know I'm allergic, and you have to admit it's fucking irritating when it scratches on the bedroom door at 5 a.m.

Credit card debt. A newfound interest in religion. Hamburger Helper. Conflicting astrological signs.