An Open Letter To Persil About My Eyeball Injury

The Clothesline

Dear Persil,

I am writing to you about your non bio small and mighty washing detergent. See Exhibit A below.

Exhibit A Exhibit A

Firstly, let me tell you a bit about myself. I am an Irish mother of four living in Dublin. I spend an awful lot of money on washing detergent because my children love dirt and I spend a significant proportion of my time washing clothes. I will admit to being fickle in my washing powder choices and will mostly purchase whatever is on offer but nonetheless I am a loyal enough Persil consumer over the years.

Dublin is currently in the middle of a heatwave. It is pretty disgustingly hot, truth be told, but the one advantage is that there is great drying out. Ireland in the sun means there are thousands of Irish people stipping beds, curtains, seat covers and washing them right now to get the full…

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A Seaside Morning, Slowed To Quarter Speed

Dry-Humping Parnassus

Smell the flowers while you can. – David Wojnarowicz

You were somewhere deep in the intercourse of a dream
when the alarm went off. You rolled over, killed the alarm,
and glared at the low-hanging grayness outside—then you
pulled yourself out of bed and walked to the kitchen to start
the coffee. You needed more time to sleep, but the time
had already planned its escape, and as the coffee brewed,
you paused for a moment, lulled into a dead stare at the fuel
filling its glass tank and getting ready to ignite. And the vague

lethargy that held you there staring at it knew that you weren’t
focused on the liquid, but rather the deep, nebulous well its blackness
represented as you watched it climb to the top: the deeper knowledge
that something important was being drained to make room for what
that blackness meant. You forced yourself to look…

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Hometown

Kait Gets Lit

We are small town. Small town. We are 509 branded. This isn’t our first time at the rodeo. We’ve actually been to a rodeo. State fair. Church camp. Backyard barbecue slip n’ slide bonfire inner tubing star-gazing. Our lives are mapped by rivers and mountain ranges. Our futures are shaped by agriculture, where our parents worked, GEDs.

We drive in pick-up trucks. There used to be a drive-in theater, and people filled it on Friday nights to watch double features. We hang out in the Jack-in-the-Box parking lot and cruise Nob Hill. We’ve run through the orchards at night, laughing. We sneak into the public pool late at night to swim the empty waters. We skinny dip in lakes. We’ve gone ice blocking drunk. We get drunk in parking lots. We wander through Walmart in the middle of the night because there’s nothing else to do. There are two…

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dying beautifully

Gukira

You will be told the death was staged: humans do not die that way, blood does not move like that, limbs do not separate from bodies so easily, headless bodies appear only in fantastic stories, children do not die, explosives do not sound like that, sand does not interact that way with blood, a dead hand cannot possibly pose that way, real tears are never so eloquent, real men don’t cry, and only fools die when the sun is shining.

You will be told that war is glorious hues of color pinned on a hero’s chest, newly-composed marches that energize tramping feet, a light display more elegant than fireworks and more sublime than shooting stars, a muse that inspires empire-building epics, an endless source of scripts for global blockbusters, a necessary economy boost, a book that is unputdownable.

Walking into an art exhibition, you will be told about the new…

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Thanks for the help, Google, but you can stop now

The Internet is a wonderful, magical place filled with mountains of information on every subject you could possibly imagine, but let’s face it: somebody needs to tell Google that there are some things we just don’t want to know.

Take, for example, a recent conversation I had with my gracefully-aging but non-net-savvy father about a pair of defective winter boots:

Dad:These stupid boots are falling apart. See how the seam between the leather and the rubber is coming unglued? Do you think contact cement would work?

Me: I’m not sure. We could always Google it. Maybe there’s a product out there specifically designed to repair winter boots.

Dad (typing at his computer): Let’s see… I guess I need some kind of bonding agent. Let me just search “rubber”, “leather” and “bondage” and see what we come up with…

Me:NOOOOOOOO!

Cant_unsee

Accidental sadomasochism aside, there are other times that a…

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