Unless I step into the voting booth on November 4th, close that weird spring-tension curtain, flick down all the little switches, pull the space-shuttle emergency brake lever, cast my votes, and am then sexually gratified by a stars-and-stripes sex toy to the point of experiencing the longest, hardest orgasm of my life—I don’t think I’m going to be satisfied by the results of Election 2008.

As most voting stations around the country cannot be relied upon to properly perform their one and only function—to accurately record and report the number of votes cast for each respective candidate—I suppose I won’t stand around on November 4th with my dress up around my waist, waiting for a full body flush and sweet release. [ . . . ] Continue »

An open letter to my Baby Sister (who is prettier than me); on this, your 21st Birthday.

Dearest Babysa,

Sometimes when my skin is really broken out and I’m premenstrually bloated such that my jeans pinch the skin beneath my belly button, imprinting deep purple grooves into my flesh, I think of you and wish you’d never been born. [ . . . ] Continue »

“Son of a bitch,” my mother exclaims. These are the first words out of her mouth as we approach The Nana’s grave for our Mother’s Day visit. I’d reprimand her for sullying a pious moment, however, there’s nobody around to take offense because everyone within earshot is dead. Two-week-old, trampled, disintegrating carnations are strewn on the ground in front of the headstone. Someone has actually dumped my Nana’s flowers out and stolen our nifty plastic graveside bouquet receptacle. (If only we’d outfitted Nana’s headstone for a computer lock!)

My mother’s eyes are wild. Her knuckles whiten around the fresh bouquet of flowers and the shovel. [ . . . ] Continue »