I await the announcement that Trump’s running mate will be Charlie Sheen.
Examine the shadows around my eyes. They speak of loss, of longing, of doom.
Also, I buy mascara at the dollar store.
It seems like every time I consider arson, the price of gas goes up.
“Go ahead, caller….”
“Mom, you have to stop answering your phone that way.”
Me: “Bless me father, it’s been 13,505 days since my last confession.”
Priest: “You’re off to a bad start.”
The conditions inside my car have drawn attention from my boyfriend, my mother, and the Center for Disease Control.
Sorry I used the word flaccid twice in your wedding toast.
Somewhere in my brain is a tiny gland that blinds me to unwashed dishes.
Nothing puts me in touch with my mortality like stepping onto a downward escalator.
I’m smart but not “know when to stop eating” smart.