He's A Really Nice Guy, If Only

You Have An Incredible Body." He Reaches Out To Touch My Stomach. I Feel No Pleasure In His Compliment Or His Touch, Only Impatience. This Is The Only Feeling. I Feel Like The Paper On Which My Mood Chart Is Printed.

(the New Boyfriend) Knows I Write Every Day For Hours But Has No Idea That All I’m Writing About Is Me. It Seems Wiser To Let Him Think I’m An Aspiring Novelist Instead Of Just An Alcoholic With A Year Of Sobriety Who Spends Eight Hours A Day Writing About The Other 16.

I Saw A Monkey Walking On A Leash And Thought It Was An Ugly Foreign Child.

My Window Fogs And This Makes Me Feel Like There Is No World Outside Of The Car.

I Suppose Home Is, For Me, More Of A State Of Mind. It's Really More Of About Being Where I Want To Be With People I Care About.