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I love going fast. The last bank I robbed didn't know what hit them.
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He laughs and runs just like the other boys even though he doesn’t have a father now, just his mom.
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In every writer's room there is a bogeyman born in the closet, growing with every blot on the virgin sheet, feeding on the pain of writing, of solitude, the failure, the rage, the confusion, the helplessness, the fear, the humiliation. The narrower the…
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Vera Wang I saw you on Oprah today girl. Oh no no no.
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When the medicine started to interrupt her sleep, she made elaborate breakfasts – sweet potato pancakes, crepes with homemade cream cheese filling, omelets with spinach and brie, hand-rolled croissants stuffed with bittersweet chocolate. It was in those e
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My ex-girlfriends live in a pastel-drenched cabin on the edge of a hemlock forest in Canada somewhere,
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My husband waits for him to hurt himself.
The boy drinks red wine between movements,
Staring hypnotically at the back
Of a girl’s head.
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You load the pipe and suck in the fireworks. Whistling missiles, slithering sparks, shivering teases, dripping embers. You fall asleep with flashing neon outside and the Fourth of July in your veins. When you wake up, your room is the saddest place o
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“We’re starting to get into weather control,” Mark said.
“Can you really do that?” Rachel asked, trying to sound supportive and not skeptical.
“There are people out on the west coast in Seattle, who’ve been experimenting with it,” Mark said.
“Bec
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Writer Marion Winik has ridiculously bad taste in men. She's an intelligent woman and a terrific writer, a good mom with a good heart, and ALL of her romantic relationships are train wrecks.Winik recounts her quest for love at age 50 in her new book, “Highs In The Low…
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In my seriousness I am not making the case that none of “this” (our contemporaneity, our historical moment) “matters”.
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LECTURES A Bra Burning When Freud painted “Envy,” the women collapsed, holding fans to their faces. Hot that year, they retired to the Tyrols. 50 Days of Palindromes Although Thiebaud painted cakes like women,…
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Deyrolle, established by the granddaughter of Jean–Babtiste Deyrolle, to house his scientific debris became a Paris fixture. A museum masquerading as a store and when casually mentioned in HG or when it was discovered that David Sedaris was an aficionado
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Stalks were scythed to submission one stroke at a time
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She came to my house late that last night and shucked off her things and we slow-danced to Cruisin' as beaded rainwater slid off her black hair to the floor. She smiled an almost quizzical smile as she drank me there with her eyes, as if I was some…
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that doesn't need any words to arrive fully formed, or too many words to be believed in at all I should say, a little something we can simply send back and forth across your time and my space without having to talk at length about it, but being a …
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... he led what might be called a quiet life
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eleven o'clock spills
despair all over
our bedspread
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I’m deathly afraid of the pub crawls
of my ancestors, through Bohemia and Fitzrovia
because of the ghosts of alcohol already
etched inside my veins
and the headlong loss of oxygen
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My skin tells a story of pain and labor. It’s better than a tattoo and cheaper.
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-- All the guys who hit on me are Virgos. -- Like Gary? -- Like Gary. -- How could Gary be a Virgo? Look what he did with his hydrangeas.
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He calls it an owl glass: he’s allowed: he’s six.
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He didn't want to read his father's statement. Yet still he lingered, poised over the kitchen table, where his father had left it.
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Flames dance behind glass
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It was like watching one of those vintage eighteen-frames-per-second films of someone trying to open a stuck umbrella.
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Summer nights in Boston, old cast iron streetlights.
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Ann had the vague idea that they would get it all worked out, and somehow, by tonight, she’d be in Robert’s arms again, and he’d be the old Robert, the man she’d known 15 years ago. She had no way of knowing, of course, that a Robert was going to
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Jasmine as skeined skins… of liquid hers, by willow courts, the lychee's water wains: as apple-moats flush fawn in russet light, through cherry floats, the leopard-dots of dawn. Branch to branchlet green …
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