Light pop culture chatter with my mom — whose verbal observances of my body have been going on since I was a child — over morning coffee during a weekend visit. Grammatical errors and logical strains on her part have been preserved for authenticity of this account.
You quickly notice your jaw, and the taut contraction of neck muscles required to retract your mouth open. Teeth is another thing.
In which this contributor essentially talks to himself, not unlike this herein.
I’m waiting in line between equally depleted customers, the time bomb of a lunch break clicking down, idly eyeing the menu for better options than the precedent, though we resort to the latter.
I would have preferred to be hanging out with girls, acclimating to the whirlpool of emotions which turns a hot tub into a toilet bowl. It was summer. I was bored. I needed someone to move through labyrinths towards, and if she were just a concept that was okay.
Only one letter separates them, but they could not be more different. We offer bachelors who may be thinking of getting a wife, or the recently engaged, a sobering view on marital domesticity.
Walking to the store, I knew had been cockblocked, but it was okay. The only collateral damage was a little tinge of what has remained my heart after all these years of cruel romance.
The following questions concerning love, sex, and relationships — submitted anonymously to this Depressive’s formspring account and slightly edited for formality — were answered in sexual frustration both there and herein.
Glib, detached, oft taken for granted, the following chat and text acronyms are examined and exposed for both their oblique intent and implication herein.
The single grainy black and white photo of Marianne, half obscured by her own shadow, bestows her with beauty, for she is nothing more than an idea of what she is, a personal vessel of fantasy.