It is my new goal to fall in love with someone while waiting in line.
I’m done with dating and hook-ups and I just want to become intimate with someone waiting in line with me.
My ideal partner is someone who is ahead of me in line, but, honestly, I would gladly take someone who is behind me in line—especially as I am nearing 30 with little to no career aspirations.
With this in mind, I scan the people, ahead and behind.
I happen to notice someone scanning as well.
We meet eyes.
In some sort of unspoken agreement, we decide to give it a try.
We don’t have to connect on any one issue.
We don’t have to have anything in common. Continue reading
My dad’s name is John Josephs Jr. and he’s a ghost, and what he misses most about being human is: SUPERFOOD SMOOTHIES.
On his plane of existence, they taste like cigarettes and feel like razorblades going down.
I know this, because Father still speaks to me, even after death. I mean really talks, which is the way it always was, and the way it seems its always going to stay.
His voice in my head, blabbing about outsourcing production and quality inspections and liability risk and my failures as a daughther. It’s torture.
‘Torture you deserve,’ is what he says.
Debatable, really. If he hadn’t been such a dick father, maybe things might have turned out better. No response to that one.
All he can talk about is how pissed off he is to be dead, trapped with all the other Astral Bodies I’m carrying around in my head. Like I can do something about it, like I’m something more than a vessel – a Life Raft stuck in the Not Quite Afterlife.
I didn’t want to start hearing all their voices, crying about the machines that crushed their body parts or the factories that lit on fire or their malarial babies. You think I wanted that?
No, but Dad tossed me out early on when I didn’t get on with Old Lady number 3. Or 4. Who can remember? Continue reading