The cop handed me the ticket. Don’t you know who I am? I said. She wrote me another ticket. I love you, I said. Then, she wrote another one.
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How can I love you if I don’t love myself? If I can’t embrace who I am? And now you want me to commit to you? I mean, just look at my pants.
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I approached the thing with trepidation, but also with pride, as someone who had won, finally, or at least overcome. But it was just a rock.
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That time he got lost deep in the woods and had to crap and they found him squatting in the poison ivy and the awesome indignity of his gas.
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Shame was universal once. Before it became an affectation and lost currency. I say to the unfortunate guy suffering in the stall next to me.
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The carpenter takes his shirt off. She says, You’re sexier with your shirt on. He says, But it’s hot. It is, she thinks, but not hot enough.
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I came home late. I snuck into bed. She sniffed me and said, You smell like someone else. Are you a hound dog? I asked. At least I was drunk.
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My mother always told me I was beautiful inside, but I’m a doctor now and I’ve seen a lot of insides and her words are hollower than bamboo.
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I was shopping for socks and a salesman came up to me and said, These are quite lovely, and I said, I don’t care. I’d never felt more alive.
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The rain ended and we walked the wet pavement to the car. She called me stupid just as I realized I’d left my keys inside and she said, See?
