The Wreckage of My Presence: Essays

by Casey Wilson

To lose some lbs and prove to my OB-GYN, who’d labeled my pregnancy both “geriatric” and “obese,” that I was merely geriatric.

Whenever I’d feel a flash of white-hot rage overtake me, my first impulse was always the same. To throw my phone. My phone! My very lifeblood! My connection to all who might help me move through the very rage that caused the throw itself!

I felt like I had been invited to a party where everyone knows each other but the host doesn’t bother introducing you.

But beyond that, whistling is basically saying, I am so incredibly at ease in this world I feel fine filling the few sacred silences we have left with the sound of my dippity-doo-dah dipshit whistle.