Jennifer Fliss

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.

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.

It's spring! That means it's time to start thinking about summer camp for your child. Or children, if you've got beaucoup bucks to spare.

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.

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?

Tights with control top: We may have gone a little overboard. A few too many beers. Several too many pizza deliveries.

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A photo of your long-dead cat, Milo, in a brass Easter egg-shaped frame. Oh, sweet animal, I miss your furballs, you think when you hang it on a low branch. Milo had an uncanny ability to hork on laps when unwanted visitors overstayed their welcome.

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.

I am alone.