Within the span of a week, I’ve found two uniquely-positioned whiteheads.
The first one was on my upper thigh. The second one was right in the corner of my mouth.
But today, I’ve found another one — right under my lower lip. It’s swollen to the point that it’s turning red. It looks like I have a fat lip.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring? A blister on my heel, most likely.
Forget about the black cat/golden retriever energy dichotomy.
If you have a friend group, which one of these are you: the stray cat, the nocturnal bat, or the pizza rat?
I’m the first one. I would roam from house to house, collecting food — and hearts — wherever I roam.
On Valentine’s Day, I read that piece in the New York Times about all the different ways people quietly show their love for their partners.
Going off of frequency-of-mentions alone, the paper would have us believe that the secret to a happy marriage is this: brush your teeth together every morning and/or every night.
Twice daily, y’all.
Even if they’re on a business trip, even if they’re visiting family on the other side of the world — that’s what FaceTime is for.
Are you prepared for the storm of brushing, flossing, and lovemaking?! 🪥😬
Driving the boat right now — but instead of taking shots directly from a bottle of D’ussé, I’m taking the crumbs from the bottom of my box of chicken nuggets, tilting the whole thing backwards, and dumping it all directly into my mouth.
Very Superior Old Poultry
Someday, I imagine I will win the Nobel Conflict Prize for goading the incels, the gym bros, the passport bros, and the guys still using Twitter into fighting with each other when I go on Facebook and post this:
“Name any males that were in shape in high school AND who stayed in shape after high school. Saying that you had a late growth spurt or had gains after your wife left don’t count.”
Hot people rarely write fascinating memoirs.
The best memoirs have a certain undercurrent of genuine pitiableness — and that’s a quality that’s rare amongst hot people.
This is just a short post. Think of it as a musical interlude.
“I Wanna Be Adored” feels like a cold winter evening, a cool spring morning, ice crystals, fresh green grass.
It feels like a clear, beautiful moment. I want to savor it, so I listen to it over and over and over again.
Oh, man. I wish I’d been at Spike Island. At the concert, I mean — not at the chemical factory.
As a writer, I often pay attention to newly-released and bestselling books. I have never written a bestseller — and likely never will, because I prefer writing short posts and short poems — but I know my way around a bestseller. I’ve read some and I’ve carefully avoided others.
But even if I don’t plan on reading the book in question, I like to know what’s trending, and I like to figure out why people are interested in these trends.
I’m not a market researcher. I’m just a nosey broad
Lately, I’ve been paying more attention to covers and jackets and thumbnail art — and I’ve noticed that orange is a big color right now. As winter fades into spring, bright colors are making a comeback. I think that’s lovely.
And the orange spines and white pages? They make me want a Creamsicle. Mmmmmm.
I don’t want some people
to know the real me,
because I feel like
they’ll understand me
better than I understand myself.
Another Atticus-y marvel. Not necessarily the vibe I thought I’d be bringing to Poetry Night, TBQH.
I’m too poor for cake by the ocean. I’m also too poor for pie by the lake.
I can only afford half a Twinkie by the koi pond.
Jamais Mayville