On the fifth anniversary of her mother’s death she found a lump on her breast. There was no one to tell; the roommate-slash-fuckup she occasionally slept with had skipped out in the middle of the night without paying rent. She wasn’t close with anyone at work, and anyway, she’d been laid off three weeks earlier. Yesterday she’d thought, “if one more thing happens, I don’t know what I’ll do.” And she’d been right: she didn’t know what to do.

Change is coming, more than your tiny brain can imagine. My one satisfaction is knowing it will take you by surprise.

I have a particularly ugly shirt reserved for days when I feel particularly ugly.

Other people presented an unflattering mirror.

Who’s the asshole, somebody asked, and when he repeated the question I realized he was referring to me.

Distributorship killed the authorship star.

Looking over your life’s work, you think how meager it turns out to be, and of your son, who regards it with disdain.

God regrets to announce that he is wiping us off the face of the earth.