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TO ALL THE FOUL-MOUTHED WOMEN WHO GET SHIT DONE
so wet the air feels like she can grab a hunk and wring it out,
curses like the ghost of a pirate who has been wandering the afterlife looking for a treasure chest full of fucks that’s long ago been emptied.
heat is heat, hot is hot, and it sucks whether you’re roasted over an open fire or sautéed in a pan.
washes over her like Hell’s hot breath.
Get pregnant, Miriam? More like get fucked, Mary Stitch, you murderous terroristic whore.
Deal with all the shit you gotta deal with, honey, and not because life is short but because life is too damn long and those problems won’t go away. They just get bigger and meaner, and they’ll hunt you like a starving dog.
Falls Creek shows Miriam what she’s seen in so many other towns in Pennsylvania—and across the whole damn country. It’s mostly white. It’s not exactly poor, but the middle class is a boat leaving the shore and the people in this town aren’t on it. In a span of three minutes, they pass three churches of different denominations. The people here need something to count on, and that something is an Imaginary Sky God. Because the Imaginary Sky God is way more reliable than their jobs, their families, their futures, and probably the water that comes out of their taps.
Miriam has the odd thought that somewhere in Heaven, freshly dead Mervin Delgado just got his wings. Or came in his pants.
Death is like cat piss and cigarette smoke: it gets into everything, and that smell will never come out
The tie that hangs from his neck is an ugly maroon thing. A lumpy knot keeps the thing too short, and the accessory lies across his belly like the lazy, panting tongue of a Labrador with heat stroke.
Night. With it, the last few crickets of the year and a late start to October’s chill—a crispness to the air like cold silverware.
Part of her wants to scream, Fuck you, dude, I don’t need your approval. Part of her wants to hiss, Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me right now, because I will gladly take your approval all hot-and-sweaty-like in the back of your truck.
It’s morning, but early enough that the dark is still over the world like a hand pressed across its eyes and its mouth, keeping it silent and blind.
