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What if I only ate egg salad? I would fart. All that would travel through me is the pungent vinegar ridden odor form start to finish. There would be post-consumption reviews of the ratios. A more tangy digestional release would indicate the mustard was heavy handed; or the oversalting would present a bright punctuation to…

“Do you consider yourself a consistent person?” “Well that’s quite a question. In what way?” “In whatever way.” “Well, i think i’ve seen a lot of my friends get divorced. It’s important to be your own person before you get married.” “And these friends of yours weren’t is what you’re suggesting?” “Yes.” What at strange…

Meeting people is funny. Last week I caught myself breaking the ice of a new friendship unpredictably. I told them about the time I sent a photo of my vagina to my mother. New person and I laughed our ribs to bruising and begged each other for our breath. I forgot the things that happen…

My vagina has been drooling for nine days. The saliva isn’t acid rain this time around. There is warmth. The ridged tube, a crockpot. Warm broth swallows down a sore throat; fluids escape me in gulps. Her mouth is softened and slugged open. Little peach pits tied to my womb have sustained a stabbing sensation…

He’s been there before, standing in front of me. Shorter but twenty years older. His skin is burnt umber and his boots… pure leather? They anchor him to the ground, and his voices floats like a feather. His hand reached out to exchange business cards, “meeting was my pleasure.” Now bags swing lower from his…

“I have nothing planned?” “What’s nothing look like to you?” The church plays music on the hour. The sun projects bright orange blocks on the wall. The french bulldog vinyl is for a bank, and the green sign is for soda. When I step back from checking off lists, I find these occurrences are so much…

all my life, my nails were bit down to the beds. My grandma was the same way. She quit with a friend in high school. Maybe they traded for cigarettes. As she spoke to me, my hands were left with overgrown cuticles and bloody tips. I lived embarrassed of them more days than not. I…

if the writing isn’t good, I must find “good” in its accumulation. If the writing isn’t funny, I must execute precise wisdom. If the writing isn’t appropriate, I must be embarrassed. If the writing is sexual, I must trace over each word with tact. If the writing is about myself, I must balance it with…