I am actually quite fat.
I’m fat pretty much everywhere, from the top of my big old Charlie Brown head to the bottoms of my Fred Flintstone feet. Fat everywhere except for two places.
Here, and here.
If I had to pick any two places on my body to be medium or even just a little undersized, it definitely would not have been in the tits.
Melinda and Carly are bloggers and the founders of Solo in the Second City, a reading series which debuted tonight at the Cobra Lounge. When they asked if I’d read something, I was flattered and confused. What could I possibly have to say about being single?
Quite a bit, as it turns out. My piece (as written, though not exactly as delivered) is below. Happy reading, and happy Valentine’s Day. Continue reading
Though I don’t miss: the money wasted, hours of life lost, hacking fits, and smelling like smoke.
Kools and Newports were for black people and lower-class whites. Camels were for procrastinators, those who wrote bad poetry, and those who put off writing bad poetry. Merits were for sex addicts, Salems for alcoholics, and Mores for people who considered themselves to be outrageous but really weren’t. One should never lend money to a Marlboro-menthol smoker, though you could usually count on a regular-Marlboro person to pay you back. The eventual subclasses of milds, lights, and ultra-lights not only threw a wrench in the works but made it nearly impossible for anyone to keep your brand straight. All that, however, came later, along with warning labels and American Spirits.
Reflections: Letting Go by David Sedaris [The New Yorker]