If There Were Genders To Genres, Fiction

I Should Like To Suggest That At Least On The Face Of It A Stroke By Stroke Story Of A Copulation Is Exactly As Absurd As A Chew By Chew Account Of The Consumption Of A Chicken's Wing.

And I Am In Retirement From Love.

We Have Scarcely Gotten Home ... When Our Children's Sneezes Greet Us, Skinned Knees Bleed After Waiting All Day To Do So. There Is The Bellyache And The Burned-out Basement Bulb, The Stalled Car And The Incontinent Cat. The Windows Frost, The Toilets Sweat, The Body Of Our Spouse Is One Cold Shoulder And The Darkness Of Our Bedroom Is Soon Full Of The Fallen Shadows Of Our Failures.

I Write Because I Hate. A Lot. Hard.

The Death Of God Represents Not Only The Realization That Gods Have Never Existed, But The Contention That Such A Belief Is No Longer Even Irrationally Possible: That Neither Reason Nor The Taste And Temper Of The Times Condones It. The Belief Lingers On, Of Course, But It Does So Like Astrology Or A Faith In A Flat Earth.