A woman I didn’t see anymore invited me to an art opening. She had drifted away after the man I loved broke up with me, but here we were, face to face. She was pretty. She was always pretty. She said, “I feel dead. My agent sent my book to I don’t know how many editors, and they all said it wasn’t personal enough. Why did I write a memoir when I hate that shit?” I remembered her stories of growing up in a trailer park. I thought she was making them up. There were no parents, and you...Read More
Author: Laurie Stone
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