I have so many pending deposits for a hypocrisy repository, I don’t know what to do with them all. What is your contribution?
I put the almost full bottle of Vera Wang cologne in the tampon receptacle of the retirement complex restroom…
by J. Mitigate
Elsa and I rode the bus home from Curtis School when I was in fifth grade and she was in fourth grade. We were the same age; at the beginning of the year I had skipped grades after six weeks of school. I skipped grades because the teacher, Ms Badham, got totally sick of me practicing my spit gland ejaculation technique. I managed to come across this trick by accident, but if you jerked a muscle under your tongue at the right moment and keep your mouth slightly open, you could catapult drops of saliva as far as a foot away.
By Melina Watts
My mother stopped speaking to me when I was pregnant with my firstborn for six or seven months.
Part II. Where it is explained further what it means to have standards that cannot be realistically be met. Last in a series exploring the Sponge Thief’s complex relationships with his vehicles, and by extension, his life, and by extension, our lives.
“At least I haven’t had to give blow jobs for money.”*
My ex-husband is standing next to the crawlspace over a garage he calls home while this declaration comes rushing out as part of a flooded and tangential monologue. He is reviewing in great detail why none of the catastrophes in his life of late, and therefore in mine, are his fault.
I was five centimeters dialated when giving birth to my son when I started to have brief moments of clarity about my life. I was nineteen, a freshman in college, and married to a man twice my age whose life choices were questionable at best. In that moment I begin to see this was an ill-thought-out life choice to have a baby with such a man, but the real eye-opener, was 36 hours later when my husband was driving my newborn son and I home from the hospital and our 1990 Mazda 323 gave birth to its stillborn transmission in the intersection of Kalakaua Avenue and Kaiulani Street.
He looked like Sam Shepard, with glasses and broken shoulders
I have the sneaking suspicion that Romantic Love, the concept, served a purpose when women were chattel and could not choose their mate and couldn’t work or inherit money, etc, (new idea at that time: you can choose to marry who you want, technically!!) but that it is not helpful long-term unless you are some kind of evolved wunderkind who isn’t attracted to the person who embodies all the stuff about yourself you don’t want to look at, or wish you were.
“Your father didn’t have the cash for an engagement ring, although he made good money – he spent it as he made it. He proposed to me without a ring…”