To my ears, these nice ladies had just chirped “Hey you know what the Sistine Chapel needs? Some tract lighting with pretty scarfs draped over the bulbs! Hey, has anyone ever petitioned Congress to update the Statue of Liberty’s outfit?”
Don’t call them “Rebs” and don’t call it The War of Northern Aggression even in fun. OR in sincerity because you’re contrarian by nature and you’ve read waayyyyy too much about the Right of Secession. They will go pale, look frustrated or guilty or…..guiltstrated…. and not be able to think of how to respond.…
You did it again, I told myself. Spread open your arms, pointed at your vital places and said, “aim for here…it will hurt best here.”
” I was asking for the relief from living that the drug supposedly gave, with none of the greasy memories I tied to it still attached.”
My son’s not on your spectrum, your stupid rainbow of pain and awkwardness.
And anyone who wants to sign up for a copy can now, cuz Amazon. They won’t get it til November. But neither will they suffer when the book sells out the first day. I don’t know if that happens. But it might, don’t take chances with important matters. The mother of my child hood friend,…
I put him to bed tonight. I tried to tickle, hug, sing, play. Slow, gentle; I know not to smother or overwhelm him. Interspersed between each new attempt was the constant refrain, near tears, “Get out! Get Out! Get Out!” pointing at the door.