Gone are the “good old days,” some will repeat.
I would take a picture of you and send it back to you, because even though I know everyone would like to see you, you alone deserve to gaze upon your dumplings.
I’m sorry. It’s clear now. We never had a shot.
Call me a literary schadenfreudist, but I like books about writers who fail at life.
Until we untie ourselves from the idea that one group of people is bad and the other is good, nothing will change. There will be a million more wasteful blog posts. A billion meaningless hashtags.
I could submit to this place or write for that place, or go on a run, or look at someone’s Twitter and dream I have their life of writing lists for Buzzfeed by day and selling adorable but profane embroidery by night
And though Jesus had made the two women, composed their breasts from nothing, even caused the sun to rise and give them that slightest twinge of brown, he couldn’t help but regret making their forms so healthy.
I’m just trying to save you from years of embarrassing Crossfit.
She invited me to the lit party as well. It would celebrate writers, and people who knew writers, and bloggers who once dated people who called themselves writers.
Then it was dark, and Karen couldn’t see into the eyes of a man she had lived with for nearly two years and had been cheating on her, she was certain, for most of that time.