All tagged Hall of Fame

The Bearded Lady

The Bearded Lady has dyed her beard blue and threaded it with pearls and tiny shells. Her hip sails out from behind a wisp of blue voile like the prow of a mahogany ship, and her heavy hair, clasped with silver, lifts almost imperceptibly in the wind.

Out of the Strong, Something Sweet

Always, the three of us. One brown girl, two white girls in the sun—those clicky striped vinyl lawn chairs from 1985-ish that Claire's dad still had in their garage for whatever reason. We were in the backyard, not the front. Last time we were out front, Mandy's asshole brother stopped in his red Stang and asked us if we knew what a pussy was before skeeing off and running the stop sign at the end of our street. Hannah had sat up and pushed her sunglasses atop her head. Of course we know what a pussy is, asshole. We were fourteen.


When my wife and I separated, we decided to split the dog half-n-half. Lengthwise, so each of us could enjoy at least half his little face, and have only half as much shit to deal with.


We are at, like, a dance. We are like wearing these new, like, tops. We put lipstick all around our mouths. We feel jealous of each other’s mouths but, like, that isn’t cool, so we keep it to ourselves. We don’t want to dance with anything chubby because it’s like dancing with our stepdads, or dancing with, like, some like weird baby grizzly boy. We are like, yuck.

Blue Movie

Did you see that? That was the third nurse to go by. They’re rubbernecking, OK? They’re not used to seeing me with family. I get more visitors than most, but they’re all a certain type, you know. Well, maybe you don’t. You’re a sweet girl, I can tell

Stuck Landing

“I could see if your mother was at the wheel,” he’d say, a little slower and more nostalgic that time, because our mom was dead, and she had died in a car accident while he was driving. “If I see you boys even touch that strap,” he’d say. We’d inch our hands slowly back down to our sides. “That’s what I thought,” he’d whisper.

Potbellied Medusa

Instead though, because my mouth is full of blood and Celia’s Sixlet candies and pieces of my molars, it sounds a lot more like, “Podow—tha—” as the rest mutely bubbles up and out and gets lost in a frothy human sangria that spills from my lips. 

My Hawaiian Shirts

They receive a whole hell of a lot of praise, to be perfectly frank. People look at my Hawaiian shirts and think, “now that’s a garment that communicates a strong interest in partying.” Those same people also tell me that they remind them of that spotted dog from the ’80s, the alcoholic that was always hanging around beach volleyball courts. I don’t let the compliments go to my head, though. I know who’s doing all the heavy lifting.


Sit at a large wooden table in a fancy restaurant and order something complicated and then put the entire plate in your mouth when it arrives.

Sit in a soft recliner and welcome your family to your living room and when they come close to hug you lean in and swallow them whole.