This is the Story

Of a writer who spent the morning sneezing and slurping expensive coffee and searching the inter webs for queer hash tags and cheap flights.

This is the story that jumps back in time to last night when the writer went to an expensive diner with her two writer friends and together they sipped Miller High Life and couldn’t finish their hash browns.

And it’s pride. Happy pride.

The writer writes about all the mornings she has wondered what it would be like to kiss LP. In a dark high school gymnasium.

Open mouth. Lots of tulle.

This is the Story

of a writer who calls herself a writer.

The writer is also a waitress, an intern, a performer, a playwright, a teacher, a wife, a pet owner, a renter, a feminist, a sister, a driver, a fool, a clown, a wife, a gender, a size, a name.

The writer jumps time to tomorrow. To 4pm therapy. The writer looks forward to Wednesdays. Wednesdays are her favorite days of the week.

The writer looks forward to speaking to someone. The writer has taken a liking to self care; haircuts, side projects, cover letters, resumes, yoga, acupuncture, cupping, therapy, produce, sleep, tarot cards, temporary work, reading, writing, HBO comedy specials.

The writer jumps back to tonight. Sarah Silverman at a low volume. Lots of open tabs. Some unopened mail. The plunk of kitchen water.

And the clicking of keys.

This is a story

by the writer about the writer for the writer. It’s a simple clean story that begins right now and has no ending.

It takes place at the table next to the cracked open window. On the table is a half eaten yogurt cup, a bag of tortilla chips, a calendar, a black pen, a tea caddy from Holland, a basket filled with art supplies and post cards, a pink box, some bananas, a picture of us in a frame on our wedding day, hair.

There are two cats. One eating out of a red dish. one sleeping at the foot of the bed.