But We Can't Go Back. We Can

So Much Of The Literature We Had To Read For High School English Class Was Filled With Victimized, Tragic, Symbolic Women Who Spurred The Plot Forward With Their Inevitable Shunning/death/shunning-followed-by-pregnancy-followed-by-death Timelines.

There's No Such Thing As Nothing. In Every Nothing, There's A Something. In Fact, There Could Be Everything!

A Place To Keep All Your Secrets

What Hamlet Suffers From Is A Lack Of Zombies. Let Us Say Rosencrantz And Guildenstern Show Up—ho-ho! Now You’ve Got Something That Stirs The, Um, Something That Stirs Things That Are Stirrable. Boom! A Pack Of Ravenous Flesh-eaters Breaks Open Their Heads And Sucks Out Their Eyeballs. No Need For Iambic Pentameter Because They Are Grunting, Groaning Annihilators Of Humanity With No Time For Meter. You’re Not Asleep In The Back Of English Class Anymore, Are You? This Is What I’m Talking About. Zombies. Learn It, Live It, Love It.

The Sun Has Blessed You," Sarita Used To Say. "look How He Has Left His Kisses On Your Face For All To See And Be Jealous." "the Sun Loves You More," I Said, Rubbing My Hands Over Her Dry Arms, The Color Of An Aged Wine Gourd, And She Laughed. But This Is Not India And We Are Not Prized For Our Freckles Here. The Sun Is Not Allowed To Show His Love.