It was a summer morning like any other—except for the fact that when he looked in the bathroom mirror while splashing cold water on his face, Gregg Sandstone did not expect to see an adult human vagina occupying the center of his forehead.
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The music was strange and hypnotic, and as I listened, I looked around at Conrad, Anne, Preston, Lucille, Dan, Jane, Sandy Walker and his ever-present dog, Michael, Ellen and Elaine, and I thought: These people are all so talented and beautiful, I could be in love with all of them.
Since the age of twelve, one of my greatest dreams in life had been to snort a line of cocaine from a beautiful woman’s inner thigh. Meredith Simpson may not have been beautiful, but she at the very least was a woman. The dream had everything to do with my yearning to make my life worthy of narrative.