Dearly Beloveds,
This f***in’ year, am I right?
Dearly Beloveds,
This f***in’ year, am I right?
Everyone here calls me "Hon" or "Darlin'", especially the women.
At twenty-seven, Devin seemed to eschew adulthood, but he was the wisest person we knew. Kurt Cobain was larger than life, even after he died, but Cousin Devin loomed larger than Kurt Cobain.
I remember those Saturday mornings,
staking pain, calculating
the subtotal in my head.
Must remain below thirty dollars.
We’re in a brightly-lit church, and Dad is holding me while I struggle against him, while I struggle to breathe, while I struggle to scream because the ceiling is too high, and I was only recently acquainted with the world through the low, clear dome of an incubator upon which Dad used to tap his heavy index finger to the rhythm of “You’re. Gonna. Live. You’re Gonna Live.”
Now would be the time to craft carefully worded comebacks
designed to slice cleanly and precisely
through those snide remarks
by the three rotund, interchangeable, red-faced
white Southern boss hogs with thin white hair.
You were born
to birth joy continuously.
Sarah and I laughed uncontrollably during our best friend’s memorial service. We created somewhat of a spectacle in the otherwise somber church.
Whoever keeps bumping this table with the lotus bowls needs to be more careful!
In October of 1994, Pulp Fiction was released in theaters and
I got my first period while camping in Yosemite with my entire eighth grade class.
I suppose the pixie cut was a subversive call to arms.