My dad cried when he saw the Statue of David in the seventies.

He hung huge cheap prints in his foyer years later. I thought it was weird.

I’d always stare up at David’s penises - these Greek dongs poking me in my eyes.

My nervous stomach always makes it hard to **** during a vacation. This isn’t MY toilet. After two weeks of self-inflicted constipation in my friend’s cousin’s tiny pueblo, I couldn’t hold it anymore.

I took a huuuuuuuuuge dump. To my horror, it was so huge it wouldn’t flush. Oh God no.

I smuggled a grocery bag into the bathroom and put it over my hand as a glove to pinch the link into smaller sections. Flush *******! Even the pieces wouldn’t go down. I pulled them out with the bag and threw it in the trash can outside as fast as I could.

I kept waiting, horrified, for the trash truck to come please don’t discover my **** in there please don’t discover my **** in there until the day the trash can got full.

In these little pueblos, what I didn’t know is that there is no trash truck. They burn their trash. My **** was in there.

They burned my ****.

he held the microphone with two hands,
one slightly overlapping the other - protecting.

"I stand before you today
trembling,"
he said, "partly from agoraphobia
partly from guilt.
Guilt not that I never said goodbye but that I
never said
thank you."

ghost - yes
walking - barely

so I went with my dad to his therapist today.
I mean, I just stayed in the waiting room
but this older lady came in and was kind of frantic
and I was just reading a magazine
and she's like, I wish I could be as calm as you.
you remind me of my step daughter.
I'm admiring your long eyelashes.
you're so calm, I wish I was more like you.
and then she asked if I was waiting for someone, and I told her yes.

so then she said something like, "you're lucky not to be like us."