Emily McCombs

It’s summer, and if there’s one thing we can be sure of, it’s that you’re disgusting. You think you can just stuff any old body into a bathing suit? You need a special license for that. Nobody on the Internet even wants to masturbate to you!

My son is particularly anxious about death. He’s generally sensitive — he’s yet to make it through a full movie because anytime there’s a minor conflict he gets too upset and we have to turn it off. We left Zootopia in the theater when the big animals were being too “mean” to the rabbit. We left a screening of Toy Story in the park because he got too anxious when Woody and Buzz got left at the gas station. (We didn’t make it to the genuinely terrifying broken toy hybrids.)

This may sound weird, but I want my own Hillary Clinton doll. I want to have her give State of the Unions on what’s in my fridge. I want to dress her up in tiny pantsuits. (I’ll place them over the one she’s already wearing.)