NONFICTION
At twenty, the world is yours because you’re beautiful. But never acknowledge your beauty, or it makes you a bitch.
another self emerges between assignments, to follow the dog into winter dusk and watch the snow fall. Not sociable, but perceiving
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
The hamantaschen have followed us from apartment to apartment, all of the kitchens dark, cramped, cluttered.
Sound engineers believe Alan Rickman possessed the perfect male voice. Early acting teachers told him he sounded like he was speaking from the back of a drainpipe.
No matter how you try to ignore it, you look like him. You look like your father.
What possible use is this lengthy childhood? Surely there would be a selective advantage in maturing earlier, so children are less vulnerable to predation and mothers are freed up to have more children?
Kate Winslet always reminded me of my mom. Maybe that’s why, even to this day, I get defensive of Rose from Titanic when people call her stupid or shallow…
My dad was an inveterate theatergoer in the old country where theatre reigned supreme before the Soviets, under the Soviets, after the Soviets.
The new octopus at the children’s aquarium was named Athena, and as we waited for her to emerge, I thought of the almost-too-faint second line on the pregnancy test three days before.
My mother has been dead for two hundred and forty-three days. I’ve had plenty of things in my refrigerator for longer.
Share some abandon.
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