Something nobody warns you about, when you get very sick, is that you have to be polite. You have to be Emily f-ing Post every minute of the day,
Why he stopped showering, no one could say for sure, though everyone had their guesses.
“Kill me,” he pleaded, not exactly in those words, but clothed rather in the language of assisted suicide. He had no right to ask that of me.
Last night my breath changed from quiet to labored heaving. We all wonder: will this be my last bath?
“The difference between a good butthole and a bad butthole is the wink.” This is the best man talking.
Ryan Duncan reads “Bon Voyage, Charlie,” a story by Dan Pope
Dotty Adams remarked that she hadn’t known there were any Jews in the neighborhood. Some people wondered if the men in long black coats and broad-brimmed hats were Goths, like those boys at Columbine.
The ants climbed up the front of Macedonio’s sweater, circling the buttons. They arrived at Macedonio’s chest, interested in a yogurt stain.