Jennifer Fliss

You wake up to birds chirping, just kidding, you don’t, because it’s February and it’s freezing, and also you have a kid. 

It is the denigrating soundtrack of a breast pumping session. You, sitting at its mercy. It, just taking and taking.

All the feels. If you take this out of context (and it’s never really in context), it sounds vaguely pornographic. No, not vaguely. It does sound pornographic. So a kitty and bunny befriending each other should not evoke “all the feels.” Otherwise please step away. Slowly...slowly...now go.

You held a cap gun to my head on the bus ride home from school, threatening to shoot me, day after day. I know you couldn't have known that I had something similar happening at home.

Here’s the thing: I have benefited greatly from reading stories from others, the daring narratives of those who have histories similar to my own. We feel more human when we hear that other humans relate to an experience we maybe thought was our very own private hell.

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Chick Flick Cherry: If it’s about romance, it’s a chick flick. About love: chick flick. Maybe it’s about chickens. Poultry love. Either way: for you, I’ll watch it. So you can pop my cherry afterwards. My nail polish is just asking for it.

Many people (rightfully) believe that women own their bodies, and that, therefore, they should be in control of their own bodies. So why do those same people turn around and try to define girls by their clothing?

I know of people who find one child incredibly challenging and seem to hate the whole experience. And yet they proceed to have another child willingly.

I wonder about these decisions. For me, I would be a terrible mother if I had another child.

I don’t think you meant well. You wanted to vomit your discontent to the world. Isn’t that embarrassing? Or is it like a seven-cocktails-and-two-shots kind of vomit?