“Redneck.” My daughter asked me what it meant. I’d never been asked that before. And I’d never known the answer til I said it. “It’s a derogatory slur for the poor and working class.” It’s a word for someone who likes different music than you do. It’s a word for people who couldn’t or…
It’s not a “bucket list.” It’s my Rockstar Dreams. The fantasies I lived inside as a kid, clear into my twenties. I lived inside my head and though the rest of my self suffered for it, my health, my relationships, my strength of character, the interior of my skull was nourished and rich. I wanted…
Love Languages are the best wave of armchair psychology to hit the hive mind for years. Besides helping people recognize that they’re loved even if it’s delivered in a peculiar package, it gives respectability to my obsession with perfect gift giving. Gifts must match recipients. They must demonstrate you took a moment to consider the…
Well I’m scared, is all. The pain is coming, and I’m all out of ideas. First, there was what Breezy said last year in my red whore-house chair. Breezy was my not-quite-friend when we were 13. She didn’t laugh enough at my Star Trek:TNG jokes and she liked Randy Travis so there was little to…
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?”
If you’re in the Portland area, SO AM I, this Saturday at 2pm, Tigard Public Library. Gonna be doing some serious schooling, Wives.
By the end of Produce, my underpants had slid clear down my butt and hips. They came to a crumpled state of rest in the seat of my “joggers” (grey sweat pants with pineapples on them) and there they seemed content to stay. I tried, once, in the toilet paper, tampon and cold medicine aisle,…
Ah, he must have noticed the dust coating the…everything. And the torn shopping bag I’d used to try and hide how sticky my drink holder was had slipped. And he opened that drawer below the radio where I keep my filth. He ought not done that.
I sounded like Daffy Duck and Sylvester the Cat had a baby and it was on meth.
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