WALK ME TO THE MOON

"How can anyone be sure?” she says.  She picks a scab on her wrist, “That’s what I hate.  When adults pretend to be sure about things and really they’re wrecking the environment with carcinogens and hanging out with people they hate because they feel this sense of obligation.  I never want to feel obligated to do anything or love anyone or find some mythical soul mate who’s right for me.  I don’t even want to trust another person again because even when you meet someone who’s into all the same shit you are and underlines the same parts of books and has the same favorite Beatle, things that seem like signs when you’re living them, and you’re like, how can this person not be right for me? Finally someone has my back.  But no.  Even then, they don’t.”  She clears her throat.

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HOLY SHIT

In the grand scheme of things, a person is probably going to be fine as long as they continue to have no memory of the last time they shat their pants. A friend presents this grand theory at a party in attempt to console another friend who has just told a story about waking up after a night of drunken stupor to a foul surprise in her jeans. “At least you can still say you don’t remember the last time you shat your pants,” the other friend expounds. “That’s all that matters.” That’s when I say, “I can name precisely the last time that I shat my pants.” As the party guests stare at me, ostensibly horrified, I do.

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FACE IT

 There’d been other horsey girls: at synagogue, Courtney Langer’s bony face jutted incongruously out of ruffled dresses that seemed too fussy for her prominent features. She had the habit of tucking her chin down against her Peter Pan collar, as if purposely accentuating her long forehead and sunken cheeks. Michelle Kleinberg was in my brother’s class; her oblong head rocked side-to-side everywhere she went. I found the trait so endearing I adopted it, hoping it might somehow elongate my head, but my mother said it was a nervous tick and made me stop. 

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