We don't get to choose our blood families, but we do get to decide how to talk to them, how much to tell them, and how open to be with them about the core of who we are. --Erynn Rowan Laurie
Brewing is mentioned rarely in accounts of the Industrial Revolution. Temperance pressures meant it was impolitic for brewers to boast of their achievements and innovations, and few accurate records exist of exactly how it performed in the 19th Centu...
I'm beginning to feel as though everything has happened before, that our story has already been told. Just as we were powerless to stop the fox stealing the chicken, so there seems to be an inevitability to all that takes place at Mosel. This is a gh...
I think, because…well, I like the idea of coming up with a story that never existed before, but I don’t really want to be in charge. I don’t want to be famous. I guess I like the idea of sitting in the dark and knowing that I created the thing ...
The times you lived through, the people you shared those times with — nothing brings it all to life like an old mix tape. It does a better job of storing up memories than actual brain tissue can do. Every mix tape tells a story. Put them together, ...
I know it's trash: just another story made up to scare wicked females and correct unruly children. But it's all I have. I know I need something else. Something better. Like a story that shows how brazen women can take a good man down. I can hum to th...
Before unearthing this letter, I had questioned myself about the ways in which a book can be infinite. I could think of nothing other than a cyclic volume, a circular one. A book whose last page was identical with the first, a book which had the poss...
I believe that we don't choose our stories," she began, leaning forward. "Our stories choose us." She paused and took a sip of water. Her hand, I noticed was steady.. "And if we don't tell them, then we are somehow diminished.
Leave the cage open. If you love someone, give them a chance to leave. You can always lock them up again should they return to you.
Scoop out my soul with a spoon like it’s a cantaloupe, and I’ll tell you that love is breakfast. And I’d love to make breakfast to Agatha one more time.
I collect information. But not just any information, I collect misinformation. I am the museum of misinformation. I’m also the artist and curator. And Docent.
My name is Davis Davis. And don’t call me Mr. Davis! How would you like it if I called you Mr. Archibald, or whatever your first name is?
We all must die, but only I put the “must” in mustard. Sadly, the only man alive who understands what I mean is dead. RIP Mitch Ketchup.
The x-ray of your skull shows a large, flobby mass floating inside. I have to consult my colleagues to be certain, but it looks like a long sausage snarled into a lump.
I’m not growing old for free. I’m charging myself with the task of becoming someone better every day. And by better I mean younger.
The past is the past. I believe that people can change, under the right conditions (like plastic surgery).
I’m a romantic. I like cold coffee and orgasms that arrive fifteen minutes after I’ve put on my clothes and paid the lady.
For our fourth date, I said I wanted Italian, and she said she wanted Chinese. We decided to compromise and meet at the movie theater after we’d both eaten.
Her dad died unexpectedly, so I hid the flowers, because flowers are reminders of spring and life, and also of headstones and death. Also, I hid the flowers because they were for another woman.
I have thought carefully on how to leave this world, and I have concluded that I should exit the same way I entered: through a vagina. But not my mother’s.
Agatha loved military men. Actually, she loved men in uniform. And my bowling league outfit used to drive her wild with desire.
