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WHEN I RECEIVED THE ACCEPTANCE letter to the Perrin MFA program four months ago, my first thought was I am an unbelievable scam artist. I am the Anna Delvey of poetry.
His car is a manual, which is something that should not be as hot as it is.
“I know it’s stupid. But admitting I need them feels like saying, ‘This is my natural state. And my state is a problem.’ For me, and for other people.”
“Um.” He pauses, looks around and over my head. “Sure.” It’s the kind of enthusiasm girls dream about.
If anyone has a Xanax prescription, now would be the time to speak up.”
It’s like you’re reading a page and you’re only looking at the font without reading the words. What am I supposed to do to make you read the words?
