I was just getting some Clostridium botulinum shot into my face, as you do, when my doctor asked how work was today.
And I guess I made kind of a funny noise, because she started laughing. And then I started laughing. And we could not stop. And you have to understand—I love this woman. I’ve been going to her since I moved to Chicago, and we have the kind of relationship where when she walks into the room and sees it’s me, she does this cry of recognition that just makes my day. For three years now, I’ve been regaling her with my inappropriate stories, because our running joke is that she makes me look so young that I’m able to trawl skate parks for a good two weeks post-injection. She’s cool as hell and I take it as a huge compliment that I’m simpatico with a board certified surgeon.
Anyway, there she was, trying to stop laughing long enough to load her syringe, and I was like, “You don’t understand. I actually sat down and did the math this weekend. This is my first job, Lorri. I got my first job at forty-seven, and it’s haaaaard.”
Still laughing, she turned and looked me. “What on earth are you talking about?” So I broke it down for her. She already knew about the dancing.
“Well, I danced from age twenty-one to thirty-two, remember?” She nodded. “Okay, well I don’t know about you, but I don’t count that as real work. That was a couple days a week, and often off for weeks at a time. Then I got married. Rich husband. Didn’t work for a few more years. Did some passion projects, but nothing full time. Mom died. Inheritance. Dad died. Bigger inheritance. Didn’t run out of money until I was 40 years old. Worked as a personal assistant for a few months. That was just riding around in his car keeping him company. Not work, not even close. Finally got a go-to-the-job type job. Restaurant counter service. I eventually managed the place, but it never really felt like work. Some long hours for sure, but mentally extremely easy. On my feet all day, so tired in a good way—you know? I was never, ever too tired on those work days to work out, or go out, or write. Plus it was working with hilarious fun people, who were some of my best friends.”
“Put your head back. Hold still. Go on.”
“Okay, well that company went under, so I moved to Chicago to manage that coworking place.”
“Wait, what coworking place?”
“Just this place on LaSalle that went under. Doesn’t matter. But all I did at that job was sit around and work on building my website all day. And study French.”
“What do you mean? What were you supposed to do?”
“I didn’t have to do anything, because there was nothing to do. I just had to make sure the tenants had coffee. I just had to be onsite to turn the damn lights on and off and make sure the temperature was good. It was a joke. Easiest job ever. But then that place shut down, and that’s when I met the people I work with now. They invited me to come work with them in an admin role, so that’s what I did. And it’s full time in an office, and not super hard, but it can be kind of stressful, and it’s a full eight hours a day of actual working.”
I looked at her and started laughing again. She started laughing again.
“So you didn’t take this job until you were forty-seven?” she asked.
“Correct. I basically had a reverse retirement. This is the first time in my life I’ve had to have the kind of 9-to-5 grind most people do, for decades. And I’m not handling it well, Lorri.”
(We are practically in tears at this point.)
The conversation went on, and I filled her in a little bit on what those years were like. The travel, the festivals, the writing, Chaucer—I gave her the broad strokes. And I’m kind of holding my breath, because this is a highly successful woman with years and years of education and work experience under her belt. I’m thinking she must think I’m an absolute twit. But she just leans back against the counter with her arms crossed, and shakes her head.
“I think that’s amazing. I love that so much. Good for you. You got to do all that stuff and enjoy it, at the right time in your life.”
I exhaled. “Really? Because I was trying to blog it this weekend, and I don’t know if I was explaining myself well at all, but that’s what I wanted to say. I think I’ve been so unbelievably lucky. But I don’t know if it just sounds crazy to someone else.”
“No,” she said. “I think that’s amazing.” And she just kind of held her smile then, for a few extra seconds, in a way that made me think she understood I’d needed to hear that.
When I checked out, my bill was almost $250 less than usual. I have no idea if it was an accounting error on the part of the receptionist or because I made my doctor laugh, but a win’s a win.
sick tune, bro
And now, my impression of what it’s like for every long-suffering, endlessly patient, heroically supportive but heartbreakingly insecure girlfriend to listen to every single shitty, comically amateurish attempt at songwriting from her covert narcissist boyfriend’s latest “album”, which was mixed on a ten year-old laptop whose keys are so sticky with malt liquor residue that keyboard malfunction is the only possible excuse for its utter incomprehensibility, and which she is too afraid to admit she can’t understand a single fucking word of, because to do so would send him into a Level Nine Sulk from which he will only emerge when he feels he has adequately, if passive-aggressively, punished her for “not getting it”:
███████ █████ ohhhhyeah █████ ██████ ████
████ ██ ███ ██ ███ ██ █ ███ █████ █
█ █████but she said █████ ██████ ████
███████ █████ █████ ██████ ████
████ ██ ███ ██ ███ ██ █ ███ █████ █
████ ██ █ ████ █████ █ ████ █ ████
████ ██ █ ████ █████ █ ████ █ ████
█lately ████ ███ ██ ████ █ █████ █ ██████ ████ ████
███ █████ ██ ██ █████ ███ ███ █████
██ ██ ██████ █ ███ could you just ██ ████
████████ ███ █ ███ ██████ ███ █ ██
███ █ ██ ██████████ never never ever███ ████ ████
█████ ██ ██ ██ ████████ ████ ██ to youuu█
And in case you are confused because you are one such boyfriend, let me explain that since your music is produced like dogshit, no one can make out the lyrics you undoubtedly think are genius, and instead (and this is the joke part coming up) it’s the auditory equivalent of trying to read a redacted brief (that’s a law term).
Hope this helps.
counting sheep vs. succumbing to a litter of puppies
party-pooperism
Welcome to the party!
We are so glad you’re here. Well, that’s not really true. Most of us are completely indifferent to you being here. But here you are, so we need to inform you of a few rules relating to your arrival and departure.
On the subject of your arrival, we ask two things:
One, that you do not ask why you are here. None of us has any clue, and it’s something you’ll have to sort out for yourself.
Two, that you direct any anger you have about ending up here without your consent inward. It’s considered quite gauche to blame those who are actually directly responsible. Depending on your age, you may feel compelled to cut those two individuals more or less slack. The younger you are, the more understandable your rage. But again—keep it to yourself.
Now to the subject of your departure.
It is imperative that you only leave the party in the company of an escort. We cannot stress this strongly enough. You must not leave the party until someone comes to fetch you. Under no circumstances are you to leave the party of your own volition. We understand that at some point, you may grow tired of the party and wish to go. Indeed, there may be reasons for which you are desperate to leave. However, it is absolutely, positively forbidden for you to depart before your escort arrives.
And should you do so, know that you will be forever regarded with pity at best and contempt at worst. Please listen carefully, for this is very important: no matter how happily you make your exit, no matter if you are veritably dancing as you head out the door, full to the brim of wonderful memories and experiences but just, well, partied out—you will be forever seen as a tragic figure. However much joy and radical acceptance you leave with, we will not celebrate your attendance. We will cluck our tongues and shake our heads and think only of your departure.
Is that understood? Good. There’s more.
We also ask that if thoughts about leaving the party creep in, you do NOT share them with the beloved, trusted individuals in your life (i.e., your friends and family). IF you are experiencing Departure Desire, you may ONLY speak to a complete stranger about it, and you must be prepared to pay money for that conversation (or, series of conversations). It is seen as a most heinous breach of decorum to disturb your loved ones with any hint of Departure Desire. Indeed, it is thought downright cruel to expect anyone without an advanced degree in party-pooperism to so much as listen to such thoughts.
Now for the most crucial point. If, despite all these admonitions, you’ve decided to leave the party on your own, you must—ABSOLUTELY MUST—do so without informing anyone. You must make, as they say, an “Irish exit.” Do not say goodbye to a soul, no matter how deeply you love them. To have a farewell forced on us by another partygoer is the most excruciating thing we can experience, and you must not put any of us through it. Again—these rules apply no matter how in command of your faculties you are, no matter how long you have been planning to leave, and no matter what precautions you take against disrupting the scene.
It’s a party, after all. We are trying to have fun.
bandaged
I got a pedicure today. As the nail technician was filling the bath, she tapped my foot and asked, “Okay if I take?”
I looked down in horror to see a Band-Aid I’d completely forgotten about, clinging determinedly to my second toe. I’d sliced my foot open on my own door the day before, rushing to meet a grocery delivery driver and tripping on the ridiculous, too-large folding cart I fight with each time.
“Oh god, yes, of course. I’m so sorry about that.” Carefully, she peeled off the fraying brown plastic, revealing a small but nasty gash she would have been well within her rights to refuse to touch. She held up the bandage, and without an ounce of revulsion or judgment asked if I wanted to keep it.
“No, no! Gosh, no. Thank you. Thank you so much,” I gushed, mortified that her interaction with my medical detritus was still ongoing.
She threw it away and the pedicure continued. I was glued to my phone all the while, and when I finally looked up to make sure I’d given her my polish, I saw that she’d applied a fresh bandage to my toe.
I nearly lost my breath.
I hadn’t felt it. She hadn’t asked if I wanted one, or announced that she was going to give me one. She’d just quietly, kindly attended to my still-tender wound. I’d come to her a bit bloodier and more torn up than really is appropriate for a setting where scrubs are not involved. And she’d just navigated around my hurt so gently I’d not even noticed her leaving it in better shape than she’d found it.
If that’s not a philosophy of life, I don’t know what is.
Bank of Karma
The news that you’d ruined your life came to me by telegram.
MONUMENTAL MISTAKE. POINT OF NO RETURN. HOPING FOR BEST.
At first I didn’t believe it. I ran to the telegraph office, bursting breathless through the double doors.
“This can’t be right,” I panted to the operator. She took the slip of paper, peered through her bifocals, and checked her notes.
“Cable authentic stop,” she said. “Message accurate stop.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” I gasped. “Because never in the history of history was there a human more wildly unsuited to—”
She raised a hand to silence me, then pointed over my shoulder. I turned and walked across the street and through another set of doors. A prim man in tweed was dusting cabinets.
“Welcome to the Hall of Records. How may I help you?”
I held up the announcement. “Can you confirm an ID?”
Drawers slid open. Files were shuffled. Document after document, the man set the evidence down beneath my gaze. “Exhibit A, names. Exhibit B, residences. Exhibits C & D, photos and profiles.” He looked at me expectantly.
“Thank you,” I said shakily. “That’s what I needed.”
Back outside, Spring was still new—still cool and clean. I sat on a park bench and closed my eyes, smelling rain. I thought about you then, with a sense of judgment I had never allowed myself—which had never felt necessary.
I thought about your lies, and your sneering callousness when I asked for truth. I thought about your needless cruelty, and the pleasure you took in ruining things for me. The subtle put-downs and sabotage. I realized that you probably thought I was too dumb to see all of it, because I let it slide again and again. I wasn’t dumb. I was just giving you an addict’s grace that you never deserved.
I thought about the brutal wave of reality about to drown you. About all the things in you that are about to get squeezed harder and and harder until there is no air for them to breathe, and they die. I thought about your bone-deep selfishness, and your recklessness about the feelings of others. I felt sick thinking of the tears and trauma you are assuredly going to cause.
I thought about the pain you’ve created, and the pain that’s coming for you.
At last I stood and walked through one more door.
“Hello,” I greeted the teller who looked up. I waved the telegram. “I’m here to cash a check.”
tiger, tiger
Tiger, tiger
Show your stripes
Some get pats
And some get swipes
Monday, Tuesday
Bare your claws
Wednesday, Thursday
Hide your flaws
Friday comes
and shows the truth
You don’t have
a single tooth
Tiger, tiger
We all see
To save your skin
You bend the knee
good boy. no, the other good boy.
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”
“Uh yeah, hi, I just watched the wrong Good Boy.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, would you repeat that?”
“I just watched the wrong Good Boy. I meant to watch the 2025 American horror film that everyone has been talking about, but I accidentally watched the 2023 Norwegian horror film of the same name. I wouldn’t even call it a horror movie, to be honest. I mean maybe. I’m definitely horrified, which is why I called. But the Amazon Prime tagline said ‘supernatural horror’ and since I’ve been purposely avoiding any discussion of the American film I had no idea what to expect. It looked like a newish release so I just figured, ‘Oh shit it’s Norwegian? Okay, cool, whatever.’”
“…..”
“Are you still there?”
“…yes.”
“Okay good, because I am traumatized and I need to speak to someone about what I just saw. What is your name?”
“Ma’am, this is an emergency services line. Do you have an actual emergency?”
(muffled reply)
”Ma’am! I said, DO YOU HAVE AN EMERGENCY?”
“Sorry, I stepped away for a sec. I’ve got you on speaker. Just need to grab you some screenshots. Can I text to this number?”
(deep sigh) “Okay, ma’am, I can tell you’re having some kind of episode, so I’ll make this my good deed for the week and hear you out. You have five minutes.”
(from a distance) “JUST GIVE ME TWO SECONDS, THERE’S ONE SHOT IN PARTICULAR I NEED TO OFFLOAD FROM MY BRAIN TO YOURS…JUST GOTTA FAST FORWARD TO FIND IT…”
“What did you say this movie was about?”
“The one I watched? It’s about a psychopath who forces some guy to live in his house and pretend to be a dog, and then the psychopath meets a girl on Tinder, and—look there is no justifying the existence of this film, in this life or next. And no words I say to you will return to me the earthly time I sacrificed, so—what did you say your name was again?”
“Well, did you try Reddit? It’s Leila.”
(from a distance) “WHAT WAS THAT?”
“I said, MY NAME IS LEILA AND DID YOU TRY REDDIT? Surely someone on the horror subreddit did the same stupid shit. Can’t you, like, commiserate with them?”
“Great minds think alike, Leila, as that was the first place I went. It would appear not, however. It would appear I am the only dumbass on the planet who sat through the entirety of this monstrosity without once stopping to question if I was in the right filmic universe. Did you say I could send photos to this number?”
“You can, yes, but we only use it for actual emergen—”
(far away) ”OKAY GREAT JUST GRABBING ONE MORE SHOT REAL QUICK HERE…UGH, ANOTHER COMMERCIAL, SO SORRY, ALMOST DONE…”
“Didn’t you say you watched it on Amazon Prime?”
“YEAH WHY?”
“Isn’t ad-free, like, only two bucks a month?”
“…."
“Ma’am? You still there?”
“I’m trying to cut back on screens, okay? I thought if I forced myself to leave ads on I’d watch less and write more—look it’s not important—MAN, TAGRISSO’S SIDE EFFECTS SOUND REALLY BAD, I THINK AT THAT POINT I’D JUST RATHER—OH OH! THERE IT IS! HOLD ON JUST GOTTA SEND YOU THESE…”
(sigh) “Listen ma’am, I’m gonna go ahead and disconnect, but you can call us back next time you have a real—WHAT IN THE GOOD GODDAMN—”
“Did you get it? Yeah sorry, I figured I’d start with the worst one. That’s where the psychopath spanks the bare ass of the human-dog for trying to warn the girlfriend about him. It’s right after he beats his cage with a bat and makes him bark. Do you see that ass? That’s a grown man’s ass, Leila. A very hairy grown man. I invested an hour and a half of my life into what I believed was the thought-provoking, must-see horror movie of winter 2025 only to come away with that seared into my mind’s eye.”
“Okay lady I’m hanging up, but—OH MY GOD WHAT THE—”
“Yeah in that next one you can really see the full body costume. The character just walks around on his knees in that dog suit the whole time. At first it’s absurdist and kind of hilarious, especially the first time he shoves his hood back to scream-whisper a warning at the girl. But then the only horror is dread, because you realize ‘Oh yay, this is going to be more gratuitous violence against women. Feel like I haven’t seen that in ages’, and then yep, sure enough, violence against a woman. Nothing supernatural or particularly creative other than the weird premise I guess, but again, I can’t tell you how UTTERLY FUCKING STUPID and ROBBED OF TIME I felt when I realized I’d plum watched the wrong Good Dog.”
(dead line)
“Leila? Leila, are you there? I took a video. Leila…?
creation story
The first of the Knowable Things were Grass below and Sky above. In the beginning, Sky could touch Grass but not see her, for color had yet to be born. Then one day, Sky pressed so hard on Grass that millions of blades pierced his belly, and Color came gushing out.
Color saw that she was going to flood the world, so she sent her two favorite children, Green and Blue, to become the souls of Grass and Sky. The rest of her children then had enough room to run and play and fill in everything else.
Green was soft and safe. It was laughter and secrets and laying flat on your back. Blue was calm and quiet. It was learning to be curious and listening with widened eyes.
Grass wanted a companion closer than Sky, so she rubbed two blades together until they hummed and sparked—so was born Dragonfly. Dragonfly ruled Grass, but he had no throne on which to sit, so he flew up to Sky and pinched him over and over until Cloud formed. Dragonfly pinched Cloud until little bits of fluff started to rain down. One bit of fluff landed on Yellow, and that became Dandelion, whose seeds became Wishes and Dreams. When Dragonfly flew, the flashing of his wings became Magic and Mystery.
So came to be Yard, the foundation of safety and love, wonder and delight.
Yard was the great father. He stretched out his arms and legs, and these became the tree branches and roots that encircled and protected Grass and Dandelion and Dragonfly.
Beyond Yard was The Unknowable, where time stretched and shrank and then stretched again. The Unknowable tied itself in knots, and the knots stretched and shrank and stretched again until they broke off and became The Outcomes.
The Outcomes were violent and hungry. They floated close along the edge of Yard, wanting to devour all he contained.
Yard said to The Unknowable, “Let us make an agreement. I will offer you a sacrifice if you’ll leave Grass and Dandelion and Dragonfly alone forever.” The Unknowable agreed to the terms.
Yard said to Dandelion, “Lend me your children, Wishes and Dreams. I must send them on a journey.” But Yard would not say where or why, so Dandelion said, “Then you must also send Magic and Mystery to protect them.”
Cloud came down and Yard whispered to him. Yard then whispered to Wishes and Dreams, and then to Magic and Mystery. Cloud carried all four spirits up and away, far from Yard and deep into The Unknowable. When they reached a great, cold island, they jumped down into the heart of a woman and the mind of a man. Wishes and Dreams and Magic and Mystery spun themselves around and around until the mind of the man and the heart of the woman knit together and became a bluejay.
The bluejay flew up into Sky, who guided it through the Unknowable until it reached Yard. Dragonfly flew up to meet the bluejay, who was so tired, she could fly no more. The bluejay fell through Sky and Cloud, neither of whom could catch her. Dragonfly swooped down and caught the bluejay and set her gently on Grass.
The bluejay, who had sprung forth from the mind of a man and the heart of a woman, with Wishes and Dreams and Magic and Mystery to tie them together, then became Girl.
Yard said, “Girl, we must sacrifice you to The Unknowable to protect Grass and Dandelion and Dragonfly. We must feed you to The Outcomes.”
Girl said, “If you wait until I am grown, I will have knowledge to feed The Unknowable. If you wait until I am grown, I will be fat with potential for The Outcomes.”
Yard agreed to keep Girl safe until she was grown. Girl lay down on Grass and looked up at Sky. Dragonfly buzzed and Dandelion danced. Girl felt Green beneath her and stretched her hands up to touch Blue.
Girl sighed, and the breath that escaped her became Story.
igloo
For Ann, who shook something loose.
Someone has been building an igloo, in the field beside my building. I watched him from the warmth of my sofa for a little while, the day he started. The field is situated between two high-rises, and it was mid-morning on a Saturday. I have to imagine there were at least a few others like me, who’d gone to their windows to check the weather, then stayed there to watch the scene unfolding below.
Shuffling around on his knees, he gathered snow by the armful and packed it into a black plastic wastebasket, which he then flipped and carefully flexed the sides of, until a smooth, white block appeared. His placement was impeccable: once deposited, none of the bricks needed adjusting. Experienced architect or geometry genius, he knew what he was doing.
I’ve caught the sight of him working at it twice more. Once, I watched as a woman walked her dachshund over to the construction site. I was terrified the dog was going to piss on the igloo, but it just sniffed around a little bit. The woman and the builder (who didn’t stand up) had an animated exchange. Laughter, big hand gestures. She was no doubt complimenting his work—maybe his work ethic, too. It’s been about a week, and I’d estimate it’s less than halfway done. I had no idea igloos were so labor intensive.
The problem is, it’s getting warm. Tomorrow is the last day it’ll be below freezing. If he doesn’t finish it quickly, there’ll be nothing but a circle of slush to prove he’d ever tried. I don’t think it’s going to happen.
And I want so badly to tell him it’s okay. I want so badly to leave a note that says, “This was delightful to see, if only for a few days. Thank you for creating something charming in our backyard.” But snow doesn’t make for a very good bulletin board, and I’m probably projecting, anyway.
Most people like when the sun comes out.
Loyal & Neutral
Loyal and Neutral are playing musical chairs along with Angry, Stupid, Selfish, and Mean. (Kind & Giving were playing, too, but naturally they were the first two out.)
The music stops and the scrambling starts. Stupid gets hit with an unseen elbow and calls out, “Ow! That was mean!”
Mean snaps back, “Wasn’t me, but I wish it was!” Selfish tries to straddle two chairs at once and is disqualified.
The music starts again: more jabs and jostling, and this time, Loyal takes an elbow from Angry, who gets a high five from Mean, who gets a meaningful look from Loyal, all of whom are watched impassively by Neutral.
By the time the music ends, Stupid has forgotten the rules and freezes in place. “Not it!” he cries. “Simon says ‘not it!’” Stupid is eliminated from the game.
It’s down to Angry, Mean, Loyal, and Neutral. The music runs for longer this time. The four players circle the chairs slowly, watching one another warily, ready to pounce.
When the music stops, a melee ensues as everyone dashes for a chair. Loyal finds herself between Neutral and Mean. If she goes for the chair to her left, Neutral will be closer to a seat. If she takes the one on the right, Mean will. Remembering the elbow jab and the high five, she drops into the left-hand chair. Neutral throws himself into the one beside it.
Mean pivots and lunges for the last chair, along with Angry. Angry, a fraction of a second faster, gets it. Mean fumes, his lip curling with spite. “You don’t deserve it, you know. I just let you have it.” He stalks off.
The music starts again. Loyal, Neutral, and Angry follow one another around and around and around. When it stops, Angry suddenly hooks his leg around the front of Loyal, tripping her and sending her tumbling. Loyal rolls over and looks up, wincing. The last two chairs are taken. Angry looks angry about it, somehow. But Neutral is placid, unbothered, mute.
Loyal gets to her feet, shaky and bruised. When the music starts one last time, Neutral and Angry stand up, ready to play on. But Loyal just limps off, not looking back.
”Where are you going?” calls Neutral. “The game’s not over!”
But Loyal doesn’t need to play anymore. She already knows who lost—and it wasn’t her.
Cordelia's Self-Evaluation
Middle class though I am, I cannot heave
Self-aggrandizement into my mouth. I love mine employment
According to my salary; no more nor less.
Good my supervisor,
You have hired me, onboarded me me, train’d me; I
Return my duties back as are right fit,
Obey you, support you, and most respect you.
Why have my colleagues work-life balance, if they say
They love you all? Haply, when I shall retire,
That shareholder whose value must make my payout shall carry
Half my IRA with him, half my care and duty.
Sure I shall never strive like my coworkers,
To love my manager all.
The Bouncer is Bored
The bouncer is bored. Oh my god, the bouncer is so fucking bored. And here you come along, and you’re anything but. You’re hyped. You’re jazzed. You’re buzzing with nervous, anticipatory energy. Well fuck you, because Jayson is working tonight, and he has no use for you or any of the other boots-’n-cats losers you’re in line with.
Did you think you were different? Oh god, you did, didn’t you? You thought that just because you’re not in a gaggle of screeching, miniskirt-tugging girls, that you’re any less contemptible? That because you’re quietly, attentively waiting with all your documentation ready, loathe to present even the slightest speed bump to the smooth, efficient entry line that Jayson is overseeing, that you’re an exception of some kind?
Look at him. Look at that ruddy beard, that Viking physique, those icy, appraising eyes. Does that look like a man who wants to discuss tonight’s coat check availability? Do you know how many work t-shirts Jayson has? (All of them are desperately unequal to the task of containing his arm meat.) He has seven. Seven. Jayson has worked here for two fucking years, despite the fact that this was only supposed to be a month-long gig while the other thing got sorted out. Two years of Saturday nights full of shivering, chattering idiots, and incessant, blaring beats pouring into the alley where he checks IDs.
You are all the same to him. And all the electricity you have been generating for the last hour is going to short-circuit the moment Jayson tells you that no, you can’t pay with a credit card. Your choices are
1) pay with cash (which you did not bring)
2) scan the QR code on the poster to pay online (only, you didn’t bring your phone, because you didn’t want to hold it while you dance)
3) use the ATM to take out cash with your credit card, because you did not bring your debit card (but you never set up a pin to take cash off your credit card, did you?)
And when it dawns on you that you are fucked, and that you’ll have to trek the 30 minutes back home to fetch the kind of legal tender this motherfucking bar will actually accept, and another 30 back in order to catch a performer you’ve seen half a dozen times already but would still really like to—Jayson will be impassive. He will be the very picture of apathy. Because nothing could be more boring than someone with whom he has nothing in common getting bounced by their own failure to plan, from a place that means so little to him, he won’t even keep their shirts when he quits.
Which will be soon. It fucking has to be.
Project 2025 Leak
Whoa, you guys. This is crazy. A phone number I don’t recognize just sent me this over Telegram?! It looks like some kind of leaked page from Project 2025, like an addendum maybe??
Goodwill, Grace, Grievance & Grudge
Goodwill and Grace were strolling along, enjoying the sunshine and each other’s company. They noticed another pair coming down the path towards them; it was Grievance and Grudge.
“Good day!” called Grace.
”How do you do!” echoed Goodwill.
But Grievance and Grudge just glared, twitchy with anger.
“Good?!” sneered Grievance.
”Good?!” jeered Grudge.
”What’s good about it?!” they barked in tandem.
Grievance pointed at the clear blue sky. “Just look at that cloud,” she said. “That monstrous, beastly, stupid, puffy cloud!”
Grudge nodded vigorously towards the same patch of empty sky. “Ruining everything, it is!”
Goodwill and Grace did not wish to be rude. But for the life of them both, they could not see even the wisp of a cloud on the horizon.
”Er,” said Goodwill, casting about for something kind but true to say. “Erm…”
Grace jumped in, ever ready with one of her soft landings. “Ah yes, of course. It rained yesterday, no? That must be the cloud you’re thinking of! Beastly indeed,” she agreed, smiling. “Quite glad it’s gone now.” Goodwill sighed with relief.
But Grievance and Grudge ignored Grace. They stood staring at the bright, cloudless blue another moment then stalked off, roughly bumping Goodwill as they did. (Goodwill said not a word.)
“Horrible, terrible cloud,” they heard Grudge mutter.
”Miserable, lousy thing,” Grievance growled.
And just as quickly as they’d come, so they were gone, forgettable and unimportant as the wispy remains of yesterday’s clouds. Goodwill and Grace shrugged and resumed their stroll, each thinking to herself how glad she was that this was her companion, and not another.
Danny's Doors to Nowhere
Danny builds doors to nowhere, right in the middle of the day. There you’ll be, setting one thought down and picking up the next, and boom. Danny has put a door smack in your way.
You’ll have no choice but to walk through it, because Danny is a master carpenter. He can take any old harmless question, encode it with secrets and promises and hidden potential, and blend it so seamlessly into your path that you’ll hardly sense the danger. You might vaguely wonder: why this, why now, why me. But Danny’s doors have a way of appearing when you’re already mid-stride. When you’re energized and full of life and joy. Sometimes I think that’s the point. Danny wants some of what he thinks you have too much of—what he has trouble finding on his own.
But Danny’s doors lead to nowhere, that you must never forget. You can do whatever you want, when Danny gives you a door. You can slip through as quiet as an unremembered dream. You can whisper, letting your fingertips linger on the frame, leaving bits of yourself for him to think about. You can dance through naked, daring him to watch. You can shrug off whatever brick of anger or sadness you were holding, because a doorway feels like the right place to let go.
It doesn’t matter. When you get to the other side of one of Danny’s doors, you’ll be alone. You’ll look back and see his blank face of non-intention. He was never going to go through himself.
Danny knows his doors lead to nowhere, and he’s comfortable right where he is.
The Invitation
The grooming parlor where Vig takes the Maltese puppy Vicki brought home—six weeks to the day after he discovered her affair—is walking distance from their downtown Los Angeles apartment. But at nearly five months old, Freyda has yet to feel LA’s sidewalks under her paws. She travels to her vet appointments, play dates, and Vicki’s boozy brunches in a front-facing backpack that seems to polarize the humans she meets. Some exclaim at its cuteness, gushing over Freyda and asking permission to “say hi to the baby.” Others look away quickly, seemingly embarrassed. Vig, whose earliest experience of dogs was the pack of strays that roamed Parco Saraceno in his youth, hates the backpack. He’d rather carry Freyda in his arms (he agrees with Vicki that the streets of DTLA are too filthy for her to walk on). But today, he has no choice. Today, he needs his hands free to carry the invitation.
Vig and Freyda earn a few double takes as they cross town. The immaculate, snow-white bundle is striking against his leathery neck and forearms. On especially hot days like this, Vig’s already florid face deepens to a purplish carmine, giving him the look of a root vegetable left roasting too long. His clothing has been carefully chosen to emphasize this mediterranean coloring, which he secretly believes makes him exotically handsome. Garment-dyed polo, light wash jeans, and the same sneakers his daughter’s boyfriend wears. “My style is Malibu boomer,” he likes to joke, flashing veneers as white as Freyda. At fifty-two, his vanity is like an increasingly bored wingman, yawning and tapping his watch pointedly. Vig, however, is not ready to leave that dance just yet.
He walks with one hand lightly resting on Freyda and the other holding the invitation carefully away from his overheated body. It’s a simple flyer Vicki printed from her computer: You’re Invited! Please join us for our (First annual??) Tarts and Vicars Penthouse Party. Dinner and drinks will be provided, duh, so come hungry and horny. Costumes encouraged demanded! Clip art of a Playboy bunny in silhouette is pasted clumsily besides a screenshot of Hugh Grant in Sirens. Vicki ordered her outfit the night they decided on the theme. It’s the first party they’ve planned since Vicki’s affair ended—the first since months of nightly fighting have tapered off into a wary truce, brokered unwittingly by Freyda. Love for the puppy pours out of Vig so abundantly that her little body cannot contain all of it; the excess soaks slowly into the porous fabric of their relationship.
Still, the humiliation rankles. Vig knows that Vicki is lying about not having told any of their friends. He dreads their eyes falling pityingly on him as they walk in the door. So he is on his way to rearrange the board a little bit. If he is successful, the distraction will be so complete that no pitying eyes will even notice him. If he is not, the mere attempt will communicate all that he needs to.
Vig straightens his shoulders, clears his throat, and steps into the pet supply shop that houses the grooming parlor. Freyda, immediately recognizing her surroundings, wiggles and whimpers to be let free. He sets her down on the polished concrete floor and the click-click-click! of her tiny nails is the only sound in the otherwise quiet shop. Realizing she must be in the back, Vig lingers out front, letting the air conditioning dry his sweaty forehead. He watches as Freyda happily explores, taking her scent inventory of other recent canine visitors. Vig suddenly has a terrible thought. He realizes he forgot to stop on the way over to let Freyda relieve herself. She almost certainly has to pee—or worse.
“Freyda,” he says in a low voice, striding toward her. “Freyda, come girl.” She ignores him, sniffing intensely. Vig freezes. He knows that sniff. He hesitates, afraid to risk lifting the puppy mid-stream and having her urinate on him. Before he can make any decision, Freyda makes one for them both. She squats, blinking innocently at Vig as a soundless trickle issues from beneath her.
“Fuck!” Flustered, Vig grabs for the puppy with both hands. The invitation, still in his right hand, falls partially into the pool of urine, wetting the bottom left corner. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Holding both at arms’ length, he carries Freyda and the wet paper back outside. A gust of hot wind lifts the invitation, grazing his wrist with dog piss. Cursing, he sets Freyda directly on the ground. The puppy sniffs the verboten environment excitedly while Vig collects himself.
His pocket vibrates: Vicki, probably. He doesn’t answer, busy positioning Freyda in the backpack once more. Another vibration: Vicki texting.
Babe where are you?
He waits a beat.
Groomers
Wasn’t she just there?
He looks at the message. Here it is. The long awaited moment. He moves his piece.
I’m inviting Billie to the party.
A very long pause. So long that Vig has time to consider whether or not to go back in and extend his invitation verbally, or to just go home. He sighs and rocks back and forth gently, a habit he’s picked up since carrying Freyda. He turns to look inside the shop’s glass front. From his vantage point, he can see all the way back to the small room where the dirty, smelly, and shaggy dogs of downtown Los Angeles are cleansed of their sins and made respectable again.
Then, he sees her. She’s hosing down a golden retriever in the huge stainless steel basin. Her back is to him, but her form is familiar. The smooth, strong line of her calves. The ponytail that swings as she works. His phone finally vibrates again.
The girl that clips Freyda’s nails?
Yes
A short pause.
Isn’t she like 25?
Vig doesn’t answer. He pictures Vicki on her couch, glass of wine in hand. The day’s makeup already washed clean from her cosmetically taut face. He stares at the words on his phone, at the number on the screen, as if it holds all the secrets to the universe. As if it can explain to him why his girlfriend cheated on him, why he decided to stay with her, or why he is here right now.
Freyda yips, jolting him out of his reverie. Love for the tiny being holstered against his heart floods through him. She is no doubt hot, thirsty, and confused by their lack of movement. He taps out his reply to Vicki.
Talk when we get home. On my way now.
Along the way, he tosses the crumpled up invitation into a trash bin.
Unburdened
I heard you wanted to tell me something, but you were too afraid to even think it. To think it would be to know it, and to know it would mean unknowing everything you thought you knew about yourself.
That’s okay, you don’t have to say it. It’s written in neon above both our heads. To me it’s a bright ribbon of truth. To you it’s a buzzing banner of shame that burns particularly hot at bedtime.
I heard your conscience went digging through conversations we didn’t have and found far too many things you should have said. I heard you ran like hell away from them, but once unearthed they stuck to you like burs. They must make it hard to run, and dance, and play.
I heard you enlisted an army of justifications to campaign for you—to go to war against the knowledge that you could have done better. It’s a ragtag army, full of weak excuses and paltry pretext. It won’t protect you.
I heard all of this in the places you don’t even speak—in the rooms you never enter. In the quiet moments of admitting to failure, to fear. In the intimate space between two dropped masks. Your absence there screamed at me again and again, telling me who you really are, until I had no choice but to believe it.
I doubt—even if you tried—that I could hear you now, over the noise of what you didn’t say, when you should have said it.
Sandcastle Man
Sandcastle Man lives at the sea, and will never live anywhere else. “The sea,” he mumbles to himself, his mind corroded by the salty air. “I am the sea and the sea is me. Sea me, see me. See me!”
Sandcastle Man has been hard at work. His face is puffy and red with the effort of trying to build something that matters. Crabs scurry by, accustomed to his messes. They’re temporary, after all. Gone by morning, one after the next.
A half-dead squid has washed ashore, and in a delirium of delusion, Sandcastle Man pulls it from the briny tangle of weeds at his feet. Its slick, grasping limbs thrill him, and he places it safely above the water line to watch him. “My little mermaid!” he declares. The squid grows limp and still.
Sandcastle Man digs and scoops and molds and smooths. Plastic buckets and shovels litter the beach, a testament to the sincerity of his conviction. But under his gnarled hands, all that takes shape are crumbling, wet lumps.
Finally finished, he whoops and dances and calls to the moon, who ignores him. “This one! This one this one this one!” Seagulls glance then glide on. The tide comes in for the kill.
Sandcastle Man lives at the sea, and will never live anywhere else.
Poesie the Changeling
Once upon a time there lived a changeling by the name of Poesie. Poesie seemed for all the world to be a regular girl leading an everyday life, with parents of ordinary means. Nobody knew she was a changeling or even suspected it, as she behaved just like other children her age.
As it happened though, Poesie was fairy-born. On the day she entered the world, a powerful witch had come to pay her respects to Poesie, as her birth had been foretold in the legends of the time. Legend held that a fairy child more magical than any that had ever lived was to be born that very day, and to bless her would ensure one’s good fortune.
Now, you’ll not be surprised to learn that the witch who came that day was only pretending to wish well upon the changeling. In her heart she was scheming and plotting, wondering how to capture and keep the infant sprite’s potent magic for herself. The witch decided that she’d have a much better chance at succeeding if she separated Poesie from her fairy family, and put her somewhere secret and safe until her magic matured.
So while all the magical beings were celebrating that night—the fairies and sprites and elves and other creatures you’ll never know about—the evil old witch crept into the briar where Poesie lay swaddled and sleeping, and quietly replaced her with a young fawn. Swiftly she carried the changeling off through the night, before her cries could give them away.
After a time, the witch came to a simple stone cottage at the edge of a clearing. Smoke curled from the chimney and an axe lay beside a stack of freshly cut wood. The witch leaned close over Poesie’s basket and cast the strongest spell she could, hoping to dampen her powerful fairy magic for as long as possible—until, she hoped, the time came for the witch to kill her and take it.
When the woodcutter and his wife found the basket, they were frightened at first. But soon the infant sprite’s magic enchanted them, and they agreed to keep her and raise her as their own. For ten years, all was good and peaceful with the little family. Poesie, who did not know of her birthright, grew up happy in the care of her human parents. She loved nothing more than to wander the very same woods she’d been stolen from, singing made-up songs to the birds and foxes and frogs she called friends.
Then one day, on Poesie’s eleventh birthday, the spell the witch had cast took hold. It was indeed a powerful spell, and one that from that day forward would cause the changeling many tears and much trouble. You see, the witch cast a spell such that everything Poesie touched would hurt her—or she would hurt it.
If she tried to pick blackberries, brambles would tear at her clothes and hair, and she’d come away with nothing.
If she drew the old wooden well bucket, splinters would find her fingers.
If she picked up a piece of crockery, soon there’d be shards on the ground.
If she moved to embrace her father, she’d step on his toes or snag his beard.
All of this was harmless enough, but as the years went on the spell grew stronger and more dangerous, and the accidents and mishaps worse, until Poesie no longer dared venture out of the cottage. This was a very sad time for the little changeling, who missed her forest friends but feared what might happen to them in her presence. Four years passed, and during that time Poesie wiled away her hours at the window, reading books and writing stories to entertain herself. And so while she could not go out into the world, the young changeling wandered far and wide in her own imagination.
On her fifteenth birthday, the latent magic the witch had been waiting for blossomed in the young changeling. She didn’t know it and couldn’t feel it, but all the magic of all the fairies she had descended from was blooming inside her. What’s more, this very special magic began to counteract the effects of the witch’s spell. Poesie noticed fewer and fewer mishaps befalling her until one day, she decided to go pick an apple—and nothing happened:
She walked carefully through the clearing, cringing at every twig snap, bracing for a tumble or twisted ankle. Nothing happened.
At the apple tree she hesitated, ready for the thunk! of fruit hitting her head. Nothing happened.
Finally, she reached up and plucked a perfect, rosy red apple. Eager for the treat but expecting the sting of a wasp or the bite of an ant, she paused, waiting. Nothing happened.
And so it was that the spell which had caused so much pain was finally broken.
Deep in the forest, the evil witch could feel the change. She lifted her crooked chin and sniffed in the direction of the little cottage. She knew the time had come to kill the changeling and take her magic, before she could fully grow into all her powers. Off she set through the woods, a dagger hidden in her cloak. The old witch smiled to think of how powerful she’d soon be.
Now, little is known about the fairy magic of old times. That’s because it didn’t want to be known and still doesn’t. But it’s said that nothing is more powerful than a fairy who has suffered like an ordinary human. Fairyfolk are born to lead whimsical, enchanted lives—that is the way of things. But a changeling placed in humble human hands learns things that their brethren do not, such as loss and pain and sacrifice. When Poesie was forced to give up the things she loved to keep them safe, another kind of strength carried her until the magic foretold in the legend returned. This was the power the witch faced, as she crept up on the darkened cottage.
No one knows the for sure what happened to the witch that night. Most say she was outmatched by Poesie the Changeling, and her dagger found a home in her own wicked heart instead. Others say Poesie spared the old witch, having no wish to cause pain ever again.
But everyone agrees it’s a very bad idea to try and steal the power of anyone, human or fairy. You never know where a creature gets its magic.