A Certain Hunger

by Chelsea G. Summers

It was as if Edward Gorey’s hand was slowly erasing her from my life, recognizing her for the mistake she was. E is for Emma who’d never be born; J is for Joanne dead from my scorn.

You can’t be a woman without protection. Condoms fail. Pepper spray can be turned against you. Information almost never does.

You can be too rich and too thin, but you can never know too much.

Information is like a feral cat: what it wants most is to be free and to bite someone.

Gil moved fluidly from perversion to vanilla, accepting with good-hearted equanimity all the various pleasures of the flesh

I like a man who can keep his commitments. Let me rephrase that: I like a man who can keep his commitments to me.

Ordinary people, home in bed with the flu, fall in love with Guy Fieri and his fast food doggerel and, taking a road trip to flavortown, decide that they, too, should be restaurant critics;

I am a whore, but I am a print whore, and I miss cracking spines to see myself splayed open in wet, glossy spreads of luscious, expansive prose. Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for print media, and for me.