The Day women were the definition of mob mentality. And here they were on a farm with plenty of pitchforks.
Thanks to George R. R. Martin, who asked me to write him a story.
Tell me about Wind Gap. Curry held the tip of a ballpoint pen at his grizzled chin. I could picture the tiny prick of blue it would leave among the stubble. It’s at the very bottom of Missouri, in the...
Sometimes the answer is at the bottom of a bottle,
Sometimes I think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom. I have known so many sick women all my life.
So, are there any asshole guys here I can start dating? she says. That’s my, like, pattern. Run away from one, bump into the next.
Ska, I said, swerving toward delirious laughter. Great.
Shotgun blasts in a small hallway. The panicked, jaybird cries of my mother, still trying to save her kids with half her head gone.
She's a good girl (for a cunt).
She was one of those middle-aged women who thought they were fooling people.
She was a worst-case scenarist on a grand scale.
She talked to me because we had the same chemicals in our blood: shame, anger, greed. Unjustified nostalgia. I
She had perfect skin, so free of blotches or wrinkles, her face so perfect and character-free she could have just popped out of the womb. They all seemed unfinished. I wanted them to go away.
Republicans go to Sam’s Club, Democrats go to Costco. But everyone buys bulk because—unlike Manhattanites—they all have space to store twenty-four jars of sweet pickles.
People always were , they always wanted to know, what kind of women gets slaughtered by her own son?
Once you’ve crossed state lines, you don’t phone to ask if you can drop in.
Nick loved me. A six-o kind of love: He looooooved me. But he didn’t love me, me. Nick loved a girl who doesn’t exist. I was pretending, the way I often did, pretending to have a personality. I can’t...
Nick and I, we sometimes laugh, laugh out loud, at the horrible things women make their husbands do to prove their love. The pointless tasks, the myriad sacrifices, the endless small surrenders. We ca...
My parents’ cherished heirloom looks ridiculous in the new house. But then all our New York stuff does. Our dignified elephant of a chesterfield with its matching baby ottoman sits in the living room...
My mother said she was the most popular girl in school, and I believed it. Jackie said she was the meanest, and I believed that, too.