His memoir, Home Is Burning, about [Marshall] and his siblings caring for their dad while he battled it out with Lou Gehrig’s disease and their mom with cancer, is nitty gritty reality at its harshest, complete with poop scenes.
Jennifer Hayden’s The Story of My Tits is an experience. At its base, this graphic memoir is exactly what it claims to be—an account of the rise and fall of a woman’s breasts.
I never say abuse. Instead, I slide into cliché. It was no picnic, I say. Had a rough childhood, but the texture means nothing to anyone else.
Wet paint wrinkles up thin pages like the skin of an aging woman. A quick stroke of coral forms a sagging smile.
I’m alone in my parent’s house, painting the first floor bedrooms where my grandmother and parents usually sleep.
The rat floated toward me. His small legs pushed him through the water toward where I lay meditating next to my backyard pool.
Some people daydream about tropical islands, or tall ships, or sex with their classmates. I spend that time confronting the grim reality of my own imminent demise.
If I want bread in this household, I have to go to my wife’s bed. I don’t mean to imply an economy of sex for grains, because that’s not the case.
My date was from OKCupid, told me he was bipolar but “over it,” dragged me to three different bars, and didn’t even make out with me for my trouble.
When I used a dustpan to swish all the mice and rats to one side of the box, I thought about all the different ways to be a mom.
