This week, last week, always

This week, last week, always

I have this friend. You might know her, actually.

My friend, she writes beautifully and precisely about horrible things. She curates words with a clarity of mind that leaves you with no mistake as to what happened, who is to blame, and what was at stake. I envy her this.

All I can seem to do is ramble on. Write 9,000 words about things I’ve been parsing since I was 15, each year adding and compounding to the total. If our savings accounts accrued interest the way our bodies do harassment, we could make up the wage gap, and then some. We could pay for our birth control, our preventive visits, our maternity care.
Continue reading “This week, last week, always”

Home, Part Three: Palliatives

Home, Part Three: Palliatives

It started this morning, when I remembered I turned down the opportunity to get a pedicure with her. Suburban pedis are expensive, and I didn’t want her to spend her money treating me; what’s more, I didn’t want to shell out the bucks for one.

So, instead, I gave up two precious hours and killed time in Wal-Mart, like a fucking rookie. The audacity in thinking we have indefinite time! Continue reading “Home, Part Three: Palliatives”

Home, Part Two: On Permission and Old Man Bullshit

I am so sick of men’s helplessness.

Palms outstretched, shoulders shrugging. “We don’t know what to do. We’re used to fixing things. And this, we can’t fix. We feel helpless. I’ve told you — I wish it were me in this position, rather than you.”

Well, you are helpless now, and so are we. The difference is, there was never any pretext about whether or not we’d fix things, because fixing is what we’ve always done. Quietly, and without fanfare. Things get done because we do them and move on, end of story.  Continue reading “Home, Part Two: On Permission and Old Man Bullshit”