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Behold the lavish tent under which the overeducated mingle, well versed in every art but the one of conversation.
Their skins glowing with health insurance as they all crouch down in unison to collectively coo at a professor’s ever jumping shih tzu.
Why do you lie so much? And about the weirdest little things? my mother always asked me. I don’t know, I always said. But I did know. It was very simple. Because it was a better story.
Because at Warren, the Body is all the rage. As though everyone in the academic world has just now discovered that they are vesseled in precarious, fastly decaying houses of bone and flesh and my god, what material. What a wealth of themes and plot! I still don’t quite understand what it means to write about The Body with title caps but I always nod like I do.
That not being understood is a privilege I can’t afford. That I can’t believe this woman got paid to come here. That I think she should apologize to trees. Spend a whole day on her knees in the forest, looking up at the trembling aspens and oaks and whatever other trees paper is made of with tears in her languid eyes and say, I’m fucking sorry. I’m sorry that I think I’m so goddamned interesting when it is clear that I am not interesting. Here’s what I am: I’m a boring tree murderess.
never known how to be in this world without most of my soul dreaming up and living in another.
Our mothers always said to look hard at the things of this world that are owies on the eyes because they will put more colors in your inner rainbow.
Their cheeks are plump and pink and shining like they’ve been eating too much sugar, but actually it’s Gossip Glow, the flushed look that comes from throwing another woman under the bus.
And that’s when I realize that whatever pain I have, whatever true want I have that lives under all this greasy, spineless needing to please isn’t something I want to give them.
I should have trusted myself as a reader. My instincts as a reader are so, so valuable.
She likes a breeze. The breeze is my lover, Smackie, she tells me all the time. Meet my lover, the breeze. It speaks to me with a Scottish accent. It cools my legs and feet.
She gives me the full hate bouquet of her smile. Every fuck you flower.
