Fault Lines

by Emily Itami

The grimness of death shocks me like a newly discovered horror every time I brush up against it, like the fresh confusion of a goldfish every time it reaches the edge of its bowl. It’s only marginally easier now than it was back then to resist spending all my time and energy trying to find chinks in its armor, a hidden clause in its finality. I really wish my dad wasn’t dead.

On occasion, my whole life can feel like a pileup of unintended consequences.

I don’t do very well on no sleep. It’s one of many reasons that “mother” might have been an unwise life choice.

Surprisingly, I’m not indiscriminately into children and babies—kids, surely, are like people. Some of them are fantastic, and some of them are shitbags.