A man walks into my kitchen in athletic shorts.That's the joke—a man in my kitchen.

I am tiredof undressing to no comment,years and years of youthwasted to the particles in the air.

Out here, where the sand is so white,so Westernized, how could I not sink into it& burn with questionslike what am I doing hereI am in the wrong bookI am in the wrong eraI am not DorotheaI am Analicia

Why does the twenty-first century feel like this?Like men are talking intotheir favorite phonograph& the phonograph is mereceiving their baritone: You're so exoticWatch out, men, says my violinI am a Royal Bengal man-eating tiger

lustful to the point of sullen.

my mother-in-law: duplicitous,ever-present in the dark.

I am done with you, couples. We arebreaking up.

All my acquaintances are coupled uplike hamsters with advanced degrees.

The virgins are certain there's a circle of helldedicated to that fear you'll never find anyone else.

This wedding is some hell