Becky & Harold Celebrate Valentine’s Day (Short Story)

Becky sat on the ratty blue futon. She straddled a bowl of caramel popcorn mixed with Cheez-its and drizzled in low fat butter that she had melted in the microwave. She stuck her arm in up to her elbow and grabbed a gooey handful. She shoved it into her mouth and wiped her buttered hand on her sweat pants. She was alone except for her cat, Harold, for whom she did not feel the need to impress with table manners. Harold attempted to saunter around the room, but it was littered with Diet Coke cans and various snack food wrappers. “Gossip Girl” had been streaming on the TV for approximately seven hours. Becky had been weeping for approximately six.

“See, Harold? That’s the kind of man I want. Romantic and passionate.” She sniffed a nugget of snot into the back of her throat. “I swear to God, Chuck and Blair are the greatest love story of the modern age.” Her voice cracked as she choked on her shallow breath.

“Get it together, Becky.” Said Harold.

“How can I? He’s totally irresistible.”

“He looks like a serial killer had a child with a fish.”

“If you’re going to be a fuddy-duddy-piss-pot, you can leave.” Becky said. She didn’t mean it.

“I can’t open door handles. I don’t have thumbs.” Harold said.

Becky tearfully surveyed her snack bowl. “I’m thinking this could use some Sriracha,” she said, “What do you think?”

“I think that’ll taste like rock bottom, Becky.” He sat on a particularly crinkly chip bag and began grooming himself.

“Oh, what do you know.” Becky slumped to the kitchen and sifted through the contents of her fridge. “You know, maybe I should text Drake,” she said as she squirted hot sauce into the bowl. “I haven’t talked to him in a while.”

“Because he stole your laptop,” Harold said. “And your toaster.”

“There’s this little thing called ‘forgive and forget’, Harold, you should try it some time.” Becky said. She used a measuring cup to add a glob of mayonnaise to her concoction.

“You microwave your bread every morning, I think it’d be pretty hard to forget.” Harold said.

“All I’m saying is that, besides that, he wasn’t all that bad.” Becky stirred the contents of the bowl with a whisk. All of the spoons were dirty. When she was satisfied, she returned to the futon and settled into the crater her hours of immobility had made in the cushion.

“Honestly, this has gone on long enough.” Harold said, hopping up onto the arm of the futon.

“What?” Becky said.

“This pity party. You are a grown woman with a job, a one bedroom apartment that you pay for yourself, I don’t understand your sudden fixation on your love life.”

“First of all, I am not throwing a pity party,” Becky said, “It is important to fully feel one’s emotions unless one wishes to become emotionally constipated. So forgive me for taking the time to express myself. Secondly, look at a calendar. Thirdly, what use is millennial success when there’s no one to share it with?”

“The need for a romantic domestic partnerships is a societal construct, Becky.” Harold said.

“Do you know how many friends I have on Facebook?”

“Eight-hundred and-“

“Eight-hundred and forty-three. And do you know how many of them have posted a relationship update about being engaged?”

“I don’t know.” Harold said.

“Eight-hundred and forty-two.”

“Who is the one?”

“My parents’ joint account.” Becky flicked popcorn against the TV screen. A few stuck on. “Even my cousin Amy got engaged. And she’s not even cute.”

“Becky, Amy is twelve.”

“So? Doesn’t make her cute.” She sniffled. “What am I supposed to do? Everyone I know is getting married and getting chocolates and having dinner and I haven’t had a real boyfriend in, what, eight months?”

“That hardly seems like something to have a melt down about.” Harold said.

“Are you kidding?” Becky glared at the cat. “I am twenty-fucking-seven and disappearing into social obscurity as my womb shrivels and my vagina falls out.”

“The idea that you ‘expire’ as a valuable woman is a bit antiquated, don’t you think?” Harold asked.

“You think you’re so smart just because you took one sociology class through University of Phoenix.” Becky snorted.

“It’s an accredited university, Rebecca.” Harold hissed. He took a moment to collect himself. “Okay. Pretend none of your friends had just gotten engaged. How would you feel?”

“Better, I guess.” She said. “But I’d still need a boyfriend.”

“Why do you need a man in your life?” Harold said.

“You can lick your own asshole, Harold, not all of us can do that!” She had a point.

“Look,” Harold said, curling up in Becky’s lap. “Maybe we need to discuss the possibility that it just might not happen for you.”

“What won’t happen?”

“You might not find love. Some people never do, and it’s no reflection on their innate value, but it simply wasn’t in the cards for them.”

“How could you say that? There’s someone for everyone. Don’t you hope to find someone someday?” Becky said.

“You cut off my balls, Becky. My options are slim.” He said. “If there is someone for everyone, how do you explain all the people who have died alone?”

“They just didn’t meet their person, I guess. They were in the wrong country or missed the elevator or something.”

“What if you’re one of those people?” Harold said. Becky was silent for a while.

“I always recognized that some people didn’t end up with anyone,” she said. “I just never thought it would be me.” Harold rubbed up against her. “At least I’ve got you, Harold. We’ll stick together.”

“A typical cat’s lifespan is about fifteen years, so at thirty-nine, you may want to look into other arrangements.” They sat for a while.

“But maybe it won’t be me.” Becky said. “There’s still time. Social media might be obsolete by then, and no one will get a notification, but maybe I’ll find someone. Maybe it won’t be me.”

“Maybe.” Said Harold.

They settled into the futon. Perhaps the pity party could continue, Harold thought. Just for that day.


Who I Would Be In Classic Horror Movies

It’s witching month and I’ve been doing a lot of movie watching and a lot of soul-searching. Here is a list of who I think I would be if these horror movies were my life:



Wendy Torrance– Shelley Duvall’s constant screaming and crying is very relatable for me. Not just in scary situations, but like, my daily life.



No one– Because why the FUCK would I want to go camping?

SCREAM (1996)


Gale Weathers aka the reporter– I like to watch the drama and tell people about it, but I’d prefer to be ~*excluded from the narrative*~.

CARRIE (1976)

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Miss Collins aka the gym teacher– I would also yell and shake people for making fun of periods BECAUSE THEY’RE NATURAL, OKAY? I also want to help you but will probably slap you in the process.


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Annie– Because of how dedicated she is to getting butt.

PSYCHO (1960)

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Norman Bates– Because I also really love my mom.


The Waitress at the Diner– I’m also so about spooky shit, but sure as fuck am not going to pursue the spooky shit. Just gonna live my hustle like a sensible person.


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Child of Satan– Self explanatory.


Glen– All I want to do is sleep. Even if my significant other is screaming at me telling me if I sleep, I’ll die, I’d probably still go to sleep. I also love a good crop top.


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Clarice– I too am a warrior against the patriarchy. I’m also really qualified to be a profiler because I watch a lot of “Criminal Minds”.


Room For Rent (Short Story)

To Whom It May Concern:

Thank you for your inquiry about the available space in my apartment. As ads in the newspaper are priced per word, I was unable to detail the nature of my living situation, but have written to you to detail the others who also share the space in hopes that it will help you make an informed decision; it is important to be completely informed when making a big commitment such as co-renting an apartment. I hope you find this letter thorough and informative.

There’s a girl who lives in my freezer. Every day she comes out crumpled in a different way, as in with some new deformity. I think she does it to herself. Her body must reset at night, because some days she will appear having torn out the left side of her hair, and the next day it will have completely grown back.

Then there’s the man who lives under my bed, Mr. Johnson, who I have never heard speak. He works very late so I don’t see him often. He’ll tip his bowler hat to me on his way out at 11pm and I am asleep by the time he returns. I haven’t inquired as to what he does; I’m afraid it has been too long and it’d be rude to ask.

There’s also the one down my drain. He likes to lick up the stubs when I shave my legs. He is often left starving. Besides the moaning, you will hardly notice that he’s there. All he asks is that if we call a plumber, we give him two days notice so that he can make other arrangements.

Finally, there’s a couple that lives under the rug; they love each other too much and are slowly devouring one another. Not in a poetic sense, no, I’m using “devour” quite literally. A missing pinky here, a bite out of the bicep there. Soon their space will be available. I wonder, when all that is left are the mouths, which one will get the last bite.

I think they all live here because the main light fixture in the apartment is a bare bulb with a chain. If the bulb had a shade, it would attract a different sort of people. For example, the girl from my freezer once came to me with bloody eyelids, claiming someone had super-glued her eyes shut and she had had to cut them back open. She is, unfortunately, not good with a knife, and both lash lines ended up on the top lid. If the bulb had had a shade, I’m sure the person residing in my freezer would be good with a knife.

Perhaps this is perturbing to you. I hope it is not. They really are a pleasant an easygoing bunch. They don’t make a ruckus or leave trash out, which would be a problem, as we had a reoccurring roach infestation a few months ago.

Again, thank you for your interest. You should receive the application in the mail in no more than three days time.


Warm Regards and Best Wishes,


“Pondering Flannery O’Connor Over Flatbread” or “A Good Man is Hard 2 Find” (Short Story)

Andie was already at the table when they arrived. Michelle and Sabrina had taken the day off from their jobs and spent it as extras in a thirty-minute, independent, post-modern, zombie film. They had decided to celebrate their day of artistic fulfillment with a light dinner at a hip restaurant in Oak Park that served all of its flatbread appetizers on slabs of wood. The latecomers sat down. Michelle and Andie verbally picked up a heated discussion they had begun over text. Sabrina picked dried stage blood off of the side of her nose.

“He has no reason to do that. It’s excessive.” Michelle said.

“He’s extra.” Andie said.

“Who’s extra?” said Sabrina.

“Chris,” Michelle said, tying her matted hair up in a knot, exposing forgotten grease paint behind her ears. “He keeps sending me these really off-the-deep-end texts.” She handed Sabrina her phone. Sabrina scrolled through a series of text bubbles as the waiter came up. Michelle ordered lemonades for the table.

“Regular or pomegranate?”

“Oooo, pomegranate.”

“These are low-key unstable.” Sabrina handed back the phone.

“I know! He breaks up with me, then he misses me, he misses me, he misses me, but he doesn’t want to be boyfriend and girlfriend again.”

“Boys are stupid.” Andie said.

“It’s just so typical of guys in their early twenties,” Sabrina said. “They’re so wishy-washy.”

“He moved back in with his parents because he couldn’t pay his rent. With his no job and all.” Michelle said.

“At least he knows when it’s not working. Aaron is still applying to the Crate & Barrel. How many times do you have to apply to the Crate & Barrel before you realize they obviously don’t want you at the Crate & Barrel?”

“It’s just like, grow up, you know? Stop fucking around.” Michelle said.

The waiter returned with pomegranate lemonades in mason jars with striped paper straws. A collective “Thank you”. Michelle ordered the mushroom flatbread to share. Andie said she really shouldn’t be eating dairy because of her lactose intolerance. It was more out of principal than sincerity; Andie was lactose intolerant, and made sure to let everyone know at every meal that she really shouldn’t be eating dairy, and then she’d eat the dairy.

The girls sipped.

“That’s really it, though.” Sabrina said. “They refuse to grow up.” The girls nodded knowingly like hosts of a daytime talk show. “Like Jack? He’s been out of college for, like, two years and he still lives like a frat star.”

“They go out so much,” Andie said, “I don’t know how they do it.”

“And they just blow all that money. And complain later that they have no money.” This particularly bothered Sabrina, who was particularly frugal.

“Right?” Michelle said, peeling a forgotten latex scar off of her forearm and tossing it behind her. Plunk. Into a neighboring patron’s soup. “You know what I’d love?”

“What?” Andie and Sabrina said in unison. The captive audience sucked aggressively at their pomegranate lemon beverages.

“I would love to have a boyfriend that, when we went out with my friends, like to brunch or something,” a flush peeked out from behind her gray, cracking makeup, “He would offer to pay.”

The audience aww’ed. “Oh my God,” Andie said, wistfully.

“Like, he wouldn’t even have to pay,” said Michelle, a piece of face paint flaking off into her glass. “Just offer.”



The girls sipped.

“But, like,” Sabrina glanced around, making sure no one was listening, “what if he did pay?”

The girls purred.

“Ugh. Imagine.” Andie said with a snarl. She began chewing on her straw.

“I know this sounds old fashioned, but, like,” Michelle said “I think it’d be so nice for a guy to plan dates, and he’d always drive.” She twirled her ice with her paper straw, which was starting to dissolve. This made Sabrina sweat; besides being particularly frugal, she was also a particularly bad driver. She crossed and uncrossed her legs. “Maybe not always drive.” Michelle said. “Just drive sometimes.” Andie licked her lips.

“Mushroom flatbread?” The slice of tree trunk landed with a thud on the tabletop.

“Thank you.” The girls twittered.

“Could we also get a side of fries?” Andie asked. “With truffle oil?”

Michelle and Andie talked the logistics of divvying up the pie while Sabrina picked all of the mushrooms off of one slice and put them into Andie’s mason jar.

“No, you know what would be it?” Sabrina said, popping up from her mushrooms. “Like really it?”

“What?” the others said. They picked up their jars and suckled, eyes wide. Andie held a piece of flatbread to her cheek.

“A guy who told you exactly how he felt about you and was just, totally emotionally available.”

The audience moaned.

“Ooooooooooooh God,” Andie peeled the slice from her face and sucked on a thick glob of cheese. “Imagine.” She said again, this time, through the cheese.

“Like, no texting games or anything.” Sabrina’s voice grew louder, excited by the fantasy of it all. She had started to rise from the table, her hands trembling. “Just real, adult, feelings talk.” She suddenly quieted. She sat down. “Remember how Jack was unhappy for two months and literally didn’t say a word about it until the day he broke up with me?”


“The exact opposite of that.” Sabrina rolled a slice into a long tube and swallowed it whole.

“Jack was such a child.” Michelle said, picking up her fork and stabbing it into a slice. It pierced the wood slab, pinning the piece of pie to it. She took the slice to the left instead.

“He was all like ‘Remember in college? Remember how much fun we had in college? Why can’t it be like when we were in college?’ Because we aren’t in college! I’m 22 and life fucking sucks!” Sabrina slammed her fists on the table.

“Truffle fries?”

“Thank you.”

“Tell me about it” Andie said through chewed food. Suddenly, her eyes bugged, she turned to the side and spit her mouthful on the floor. “No, you guys.” A smile twitched onto her face, as if she herself knew what she was about to say was crazy. “You know what’s really. Fucking. It?”

“What?” the girls said. Sabrina gave her straw a tongue bath. Michelle’s glass had emptied and her straw had shredded. She sucked at thin air.

“Picture this.” Andie said, spreading her hands in front of her.


“Having a boyfriend,”



“Yeah?” their bodies convulsed, hanging on her every word.

“A full-time JOB!”

The audience growled.

“Imagine, imagine!” They said.

“Like he has regular work?” Sabrina asked.

“Uh-huh,” Andie said.

“And he gets a regular paycheck?” Michelle asked.

“Yes.” Andie said.

“Oh my God,” Sabrina fanned herself. She dunked her hand in her glass, grabbed two ice cubes, and dropped them down her top.

“You guys,” Michelle said. “We need guys like my friend Kristin’s fiancé. Remember that wedding I’m going to be in?”

“Yeah.” The girls said.

“Remember Kristin’s fiancé?”

“Yeah?” The girls voice went up in volume.

“For a job,” Michelle said.


“He does,”


Michelle took a breath. “Commercial. Real estate.”

The girls let out a guttural roar. Andie banged her head twice on the table. Sabrina picked up her trendy mason jar and threw it on the floor, shattering the glass. “Imagine! Imagine!” they all screamed. Michelle thrust bursting fistfuls of truffle fries into her gaping mouth.

After several moments of this, the girls found themselves thoroughly tuckered out. They daintily finished their flatbread, asked for the check, split it three ways, and left. As they drove in their separate cars, listening to different radio stations, towards different towns, they each thought, “Yes. A good man is hard to find.”