I Stare At The Pile Of Discarded

God Doesn't Like Lesbians," Grandma Huberman Hised, Throwing The Magazine In The Trash. Jennifer Knew What Lesbian Meant, And She Knew She Probably Was One. But She Couldn't Understand Why God Would Hold That Against Her Or Against Monica Mathers, Who'd Never Started A War Or Killed Anybody, And Whose Deadeye Three-pointers Were Straight-up Amazing. After All, Hadn't God Made Both Of Them? But People Were Like That, She'd Noticed. They'd Invoke Godly Privilege At The Weirdest Of Times And For The Most Stupid Reasons.

For Once, Evie Didn’t Know What To Say. She Hadn’t Really Thought Of Her Uncle As Very Human. He Was More Like A Textbook Who Occasionally Remembered To Put On A Tie. But It Was Clear That He Was, Indeed, Human, With A Deep Wound Named Rotke.

May I Suggest That You All Read? And Often. Believe Me, It's Nice To Have Something To Talk About Other Than The Weather And The Queen's Health. Your Mind Is Not A Cage. It's A Garden. And It Requires Cultivating.

Come Awake, Tom. Fathers Can Willfully Hurt Their Children. They Can Be Addicts Too Weak To Give Up Their Vices, No Matter The Pain It Causes. Mothers Can Turn You Invisible With Neglect. They Can Erase You With A Denial, A Refusal To See. Friends Can Deceive You. People Lie. It Is A Cold, Hard World. I Do Not Blame Nell Hawkins For Retreating From It Into A Madness Of Her Own Choosing.

Hot Off The Presses, Today’s Headlines: The Love Of Your Life Does Not Approve Of My Wanton Flapper Ways,” Evie Said In A Voice Of Affected Mystery. “really, Mabesie. You Might Want To Reconsider—he Is A Bit Of A Killjoy.