Memory

The insults flew fast and furious yesterday morning, coming mostly from the universe and my own decrepit body, so it was hardly surprising when an elderly stranger joined in on the act. It wasn’t long past 8 am and though I pretended not to hear her question, there was a part of me that longed […]

It was early in the morning of what was, for me, a rare snow day, when our neighbor accidentally started a fire. I’d been lazing around at home with my ex in a cozy scene of such domestic idyll that its memory could still warm me today if I allowed it to. Oblivious to the

It’s Saturday night — or “Saturrrdaaaaay night,” as one might croon in Frank Sinatra mode — and as Crankenstein showers post-workout and Muriel diligently bathes herself in the living room, pausing occasionally to stare at me, I’m on the couch trying to distract myself from bodily frustrations. For whatever reason, the levodopa hasn’t worked well

Our first few holidays and birthdays together, I gave Crankenstein a wide berth when it came to gift-giving. She had more important things to do with her time than shop, and I’d rather select offerings for others than unwrap them myself anyway. But I’d be lying if I said her indifference wasn’t eventually insulting. If

There are only a handful of birthdays I get sentimental about, none of them my own. My mom and her siblings treat theirs like national holidays, which always strikes me as absurd, particularly an uncle’s custom of taking an entire week off work to commemorate his birth. (Is there really that much to celebrate?!) In

After yesterday’s post about repetition and therapy, it seems only natural to tackle one of the more obvious questions any reader of this site might ask, which is “Why are you so fucked up about your ex?” Some of the answers are already here, if you know where to look. As I previously wrote about

After the fourth or fifth time I woke up coughing and gagging last night, still too congested to breathe, I glanced at my watch. It was only 11 pm and Crankenstein hadn’t yet stirred, but I didn’t want to risk disturbing her overnight when she had clinic in the morning. Gathering my pillow, water and

Early on New Year’s Eve Day, 2021, my best friend jokingly asked “Are Muriel and Crankenstein drunk yet?” I replied with a photo of Muriel licking the undersize dog bed in my office as I attempted to work. After scrutinizing some of the titles on my bookshelves, he wrote “I assume the copy of Being

There are times in every relationship when you assume an ill-fitting role for the sake of your partner. Crankenstein didn’t enjoy prying a partially eaten mole carcass from the jaws of our beloved (and disgusting) dog, who ripped it from the earth right in front of us with her fangs a few years ago. But