Jennifer Fliss

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On a dark rainy night, when our toddler was asleep, he set up Star Wars: A New Hope — who knew that was what it was called? — on the laptop. I, with a skeptical brow, cozy blanket, and my phone (in case boredom struck)...

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.

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.

I am alone.

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.

Don’t flush the toilet. Don’t turn on the lights. This is a good time to either meditate or partake in that incredibly wise bit of advice to sleep when the baby sleeps.

Invite friends over. They should be attractive, but don’t have to be.

Nothing says "I’m patriotic" quite like going to a wolf-themed indoor water park resort wearing your wolf-themed t-shirt. With your floaties on. And a beer in your hand.

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