I grew up with food stamps, latchkeys, Lee jeans from an outlet, Campbell’s soup, three deadbeat dads, and a mother who wrote letters to a TV evangelist praying for a husband.
“When is disability humor appropriate and when isn’t it?”
Science is not now, nor has ever been, objective, fair, or inclusive.
“My parents are quietly crumbling, and their house is crumbling around them.”
Skating was for graceful girls, pretty girls. Girls with money. Not a girl like me.
On the day when two pink lines stared up at me, I wondered which set of events I had set in motion. A baby? Or not a baby?
I feel what I feel, and I cry in the shower with a beer, but the week before I turned thirty, I felt nothing.
I leaned over the casket with tears streaming down my face. They dripped onto my brother’s body, his hands, my hands.
I try to use my master’s thesis as a way to find myself in women’s writing—the mystics, Flannery—but, ultimately, I fail.
“He traced my spine. It turned out to be curvy, a little snake made of bones.”