Discussion about this post

User's avatar
mary g.'s avatar

Here's one to start. It's super short, but I think it works.

We Are Not Responsible for Your Valuables

We are not your mother. Okay, we may be your mother, but right now, let’s pretend that we are not your mother. We are just a person. A person older than you who cares about you. Like a mother. And like any mother (which we are not), it is time we gave you some motherly advice. Take your things with you when you go. We are not responsible for your valuables. It’s all you, baby. Though you are not our baby. Though you are not a baby. You are an adult. Which is why you have to go. Don’t forget to call.

Expand full comment
William Horner's avatar

You May Feel a Little Prick

Darling, I’ve done everything: Botox, lip fillers, cold sculpting, rhinoplasty, a face lift or two. I’ve had leeches suck away the rancid blood and restore the rosy hue to my cheeks. I’ve done mole extractions and astral projections and every kind of nip and/or tuck because youth is not a state of mind, it’s a physical condition that takes concentrated effort to maintain. Yet even with all of that, if there’s one thing that still betrays you, it’s the hands. Hands like a pair of dinosaur claws. Ancient and veiny and really, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to take a meat cleaver to those geriatric mitts of mine.

Oh but then, my girlfriend’s daughter told me about this procedure, not a surgery, she claimed, nothing that involved anesthetic. It was just a box. A black box. You stick your hands in the opening and well, I can’t claim to have any notion of what goes on in there, but they warn you just before the procedure that you may feel a little prick on each of your wrists.

“Like the pinch of a blood glucose monitor,” the nurse said to me, as if I knew the feeling. She was young, this nurse, but seemed to be making no effort to look her age, a face as pale and weary as my niece, Nancy, who murdered her own chances at beauty by having three ungrateful children.

I think the nurse could sense my resentment because that black box of hers did more than just prick my wrists. Let me tell you, it was like putting on a pair of gloves that were three sizes too small and full of needles, and that was before she even flipped the switch. A pain like that: your skin pulled back and barbecued; hot hot hot flaming fingernails with knuckles shattered like glass? I didn’t want to scream. That nurse was a villain, I tell you, a demon in a white lab coat sent to cure me of my vanity with boiling bloody pain. I cursed at her, screamed at her, promising myself that as soon as I was free from her infernal machine, I would strangle her to death.

But then it was suddenly over.

And I pulled out my darling little hands.

And all was forgiven.

Expand full comment
200 more comments...

No posts

Ready for more?