schedule this week: 

Monday. diversify palate. Tuesday. buy fire extinguisher Wednesday. leave burners on Thursday. install smoke detectors Friday. lunch with Mom

A pointed at the pamphlet before heading in, “See you’re not actually locked in.”

The concept of an escape room is simple, but the stress of thinking I wouldn’t be able to complete the mission built for thirteen year olds and stunted adults terrified me. I got moody at the food court and chugged a coke before stepping in. 

I was pleased to discover that the group joining us for our outer space mission were five very well manicured gay teens and one of their girls. The leader, (which I did not initially recognize as leadership material) had curly blond hair which I think he had curled himself, and a knack for clear and concise instruction. 

I would follow this teenager into battle. Into the depths of hell, into a grainy outer space where we found ourselves.

If I was a different person we would have built an Empire already. If I were a different person I’d learn how to save money. I’d put my new credit card in my wallet. I’d use it on dinners from time to time. I would start thinking about air-miles.  

L’s sister just got a full ride to grad school, a scholarship and everything. I told L this would be good for her too because now she will have a real in with academics. 

I am satisfied with my quick and logical response. 

L is missing grass, L is not really sure about New York anymore. 

A's little brother kept forgetting we were even on a mission. I learned that week that he is usually never listening to a single thing his sister and I talk about. He only joins the chorus when he reflects on a daydream he just had. 

A cannot stop tattling on her brother. And her brother can’t stop sticking up his middle finger. And I can’t stop laughing in time to be the voice of discipline.

We stood out of the way. But her arm extended through the crowd, blood dripping off her small hand. 

The blood was an actor that day. 

We joked we wanted to be the blood for Halloween. 

The blood covered her head, R’s hand, S’s jacket. 

The blood told us not to forget about danger! The blood told us to go the fuck to bed. 

That weekend we barely slept. And everything I did felt like some sort of dream. 

I woke up depressed that morning and L rubbed my back like a mother bird. 

I looked in my closet and got dressed, and we danced and decided life’s too short not to go, just go and maybe you’ll feel better. 

But by the end of the night people were crying and the bloody hand was hurled into a cab. 

It’s hard to know if something is really, very serious. But I ask J and usually J knows and she says it's fine until we all decide it's best to head home.

It was so weird when I dated that middle aged substitute teacher last week. We went on 4 dates and they were all fine. So I wrote about each one. I sent them to my publisher and by the next Sunday they were in The New Yorker. 

I got 27 texts, emails, and phone calls. He did not like what I wrote. 

All the boys I dated before wouldn’t have seen me like he did. They do not read The New Yorker.