Everything that can be turned into a word can exist in language.

Blowing out the candle isn’t going to help if the house is already on fire.

Loving me is the first step toward hating me.

I no longer have friends; I have personal associates.

Spent all day figuring out the story of my trash.

If people came with a dislike button, I would push it a lot.

When I was young, I was alone but wanted to have friends. Now, I have friends but want to be alone.

I have Barry White and 53 cans of Coca-Cola on this snowed-in Thanksgiving. What more could I want?

Another dead varied thrush at my house. Fell out of the sky, faulty. A man, a witness, walked into my driveway, picked up the bird and brushed snow off its feathers. He turned the bird, examined its body. Satisfied, he gave it a heave-ho into the air. The thrush flew, feebly, in the shape of an upside-down “U” drawn by a drunk’s hand, then went, clean, into a drift of snow—a missile leaving a bird-shaped hole.

Last night, I misread a line from one of Elizabeth Colen’s poems as: “Here we take mattresses into our own hands.” I was all, “Wow. It’s like she really knows my family.”