This get-together is entirely brunette and liquid and will pass right through us like bright lights or cheap liquor.
She bites and chews and gnaws. She is so focused on the tiny words in her textbook. Then she clamps down on the pen cap so hard that it snaps in half. It makes a kind of popping sound, and I feel blood rush to my cheeks.
by Mike Coakley For some time now, I’ve been hungrily purchasing essay collections. I used to avoid them; when an undergraduate professor of mine assigned pieces from Philip Lopate’s The Art of the Personal Essay, I haughtily skimmed them and sat mostly silent in class. I cared little for Montaigne’s musing on monstrous children, and
Now that Iʼm in bars surrounded by e-cigarette plumes rather than chain- ganging Marlboro smoke, observing bored chicks in matching spiked leather heels to their spiked leather jackets from H&M, and folks unlikely to be saturated in sweat in fear of ruining their makeup/clothes/hair, itʼs time to reassess my memories. I suppose Iʼm oldish now,
All right, I’ll be the first to admit it: I’m a sucker for super hero flicks. I grew up in the era of Nickelodeon’s short-lived The Secret World of Alex Mack, about a girl who could turn to a puddle at will, and Doug, whose imaginary alter ego, “Quailman,” fought the mad scientist Dr. Klotzenstein.