There Are Lots Of Things That Happen

Sometimes With 'the New Yorker,' They Have Grammar Rules That Just Don't Feel Right In My Mouth.

Do I Exaggerate? Boy, Do I, And I'd Do It More If I Could Get Away With It.

I Am A Person Who Feels Guilty For Crimes I Have Not Committed, Or Have Not Committed In Years. The Police Search The Train Station For A Serial Rapist And I Cover My Face With A Newspaper, Wondering If Maybe I Did It In My Sleep. The Last Thing I Stole Was An Eight-track Tape, But To This Day I'm Unable To Enter A Store Without Feeling Like A Shoplifter. It's All The Anxiety With None Of The Free Stuff.

I've Never Written About Sex In My Diary. Like If You Read My Diary, You Wouldn't Think I'm A Virgin, But You Would Have No Idea What It Is That I've Actually Ever Done.

It's Safe To Assume That By 2085 Guns Will Be Sold In Vending Machines But You Won't Be Able To Smoke Anywhere In America.