My mom drove me to the show. I spilled out of her car and entered the venue alone. I found my friend inside, she sang along to the opener. I sang along to the main act. 

They leave class huffing and puffing. “I can believe I got my ass whooped in a Pilates Princess class!” I smile, grinding my teeth together. 

The first thing you should know about me is that I’m dead, and these writings have been published against my will.

I think I’ve done “young” wrong.

I typed the song title into the search bar, and the album West End Girl popped up. 

We cite articles we’ve read, knowing we mean to cite TikToks we’ve watched. 

As much as we like to claim we’re an Elphaba or a Glinda, aren’t we all a little bit of both?

Say it with me: The FitnessGram Pacer Test is a multistage aerobic capacity test that progressively gets more difficult as it continues

I’m crawling into a fault line to try to reach the center of it, and when the earth shakes, I act like I don’t notice. 

I throw open the blinds. We’re surrounded by other windows, other lives. Each could have a camera directed at me at this very instance. My new one-bedroom, a panopticon.

I asked everyone at my goodbye party not to say “goodbye” when they left.

Put your mask on first before helping others.

Go to Ireland.

There’s so much time, and there’s so much love.

“If I lay as still as possible,” I began, “it’s like no different than when we’re having sex!”

She kept her pinkie fingernail exactly a centimeter longer than the others, so no one other than other cokeheads would notice. Not even the pageant judge

It was nice to have someone who wanted you like that. Who valued you, even if it were like property. 

They held Michelob Ultras in hand, and chewing tobacco in their cheeks, spitting into plastic cups, precariously placed on the edge of the pool table’s green felt.

You keep mistaking the streetlight by your house for the full moon.

Communing with the dead, and a recipe for cinnamon rolls.