on x

On kissing.

Sometimes it’s terrible.

Then there are times when you kiss your way to heaven until your lips ache and you realize the guy you’ve been drooling with is named Dwight. Which adds a different dimension to the kisses and makes you wonder about his mother, who is suddenly present in the kiss, inserting herself between your lips and his, altering the fullness, the swelling ardors. Dwight? What the fuck? Oh God.

On not wanting to be your BFF.

I can’t whistle or remember the really cute hopscotch rhymes. My mom doesn’t buy soda. We don’t even have cable. I’m not allowed to play with Barbies, shave my legs, or get a perm. You can seriously do better. 

On my husband’s sleep habits.

He doesn’t need any. Even if he did need habits, he would fall asleep too quickly to remember them. He has a steady regimen of sleep accidents, coincidences, and uncanny events. But not habits. No habits ever.