If Mary-Louise Parker were your girlfriend, you’d laze in bed together on Sunday mornings, with just thin, jersey-cotton sheets as the only barrier between your bodies and the air, and she would read Wallace Stevens aloud to you. You’d debate the pros and cons of austerity in poetry until she said, “Honey, we’re saying the same thing,” and then kissed you through a smile.
If Mary-Louise Parker were your girlfriend, she would normally keep her
Previously by Molly Priddy: My Secular Patron Saints In February 2002, when I was a junior in high school, a house burned down in Missoula, Montana. Houses can do that, burn to the ground – it's not entirely uncommon here, especially in the winter when heating systems can go awry. But in our city, considered to be the liberal, blue freckle on an otherwise very red state, even more important than the ashes was what…
When I was toddler, all blond ringlets and big brown eyes, I was eating dinner while sitting at my high chair in the kitchen, when my dad told me to finish something – probably a vegetable. The story goes, instead of listening to him, I looked him dead in the eye, raised my fist – which was about 1.5 inches wide – and stuck out my jaw. I was ready to fight this giant man, apparently,…
