Once a Sanskrit whisper of serenity, yoga is now a suburban flex-off with poses like “Smugasana,” “Social Media Savasana,” and “Downward-Facing Mortgage.” Yogis chant “om” while secretly eyeing the Lululemon sale rack. Still seeking true enlightenment? How about discovering that your instructor’s a part-time vape dealer named Brett. Namaste, indeed.
At 3 a.m., the cats held their nightly meeting. Socks proposed world domination again. Whiskers seconded. Mittens licked herself. By dawn, they’d knocked over a vase, shredded the blinds, and stared blankly into walls. Their human awoke, stepped on litter, and muttered, “Evil.” The cats purred. The plan was working.
The most exclusive gated community in the universe—harp music and clouds mandatory. Entry requirements are fluid but seem to involve good behavior, belief systems, or being a golden retriever. Eternity is rumored to include infinite serenity, zero taxes, bingo, and all-you-can-eat buffets. Wi-Fi status unknown. No refunds on reincarnation.
Crampazine is now offered in chewable gummies. Results may vary. May cause involuntary yodeling, nostalgia for fax machines, spontaneous karaoke, mild time travel, existential vertigo, sock envy, or hallucinations of your ex as a centaur. Avoid use during lunar eclipses. Consult a psychic before use. Not responsible for emotional contouring.
They lay on the hood of his car, stars spilling across the night above like secrets. She traced constellations with her finger. He pretended to understand. “That one’s ours,” she whispered, pointing. He nodded quietly, knowing she’d leave eventually; but for now, the sky held them both, breathless and still.
He touched her hand while reaching for the salt. The moment bloomed. Sweat behind knees, breath like static. Not love, not even want. Just hunger disguised as recognition. She thought of myth, of moths drawn to flame, of consequences uninvited. The salt stay between them, granular and innocent. Neither spoke.
“Woman shot in butt after sliding into MRI machine with loaded firearm” An unidentified Wisconsin woman was left with an extra pair of holes in her butt after she took a loaded firearm into an MRI machine during a doctor’s visit in June, according to Food and Drug Administration records.
Kathy admired his dating-app profile: “Farm-to-table, eh?” she texted, flirting. “My lifestyle,” he rejoined. “Dinner’s on me?” She arrived hungry. He opened the door, beaming. A live chicken strutted across the kitchen. “Meet Beatrice. She’s organic.” Kathy blinked. He sharpened a knife. Kathy backed out slowly. Beatrice clucked. Alone. Again.
He savored every bite—fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cherry pie. The guards watched silently. He licked his fingers, smiled. “Tastes like freedom,” he said. They didn’t reply. Later, the cell was empty, meal tray wiped clean. Only a note remained: “Thanks for the kindness. I forgave myself today.”
Each morning Harold stood at the red mailbox in a gray suit, breath held like a final note. Thirty-two years ago she had promised him a letter. Neighbors whispered; time scoffed. Still he waited—suit coat in July. One day, that day arrived. His knees buckled. It was addressed “Beloved.”
He murmured “chef’s kiss” and leaned in close. She tilted her head. He kissed the duck confit. Ardently. She froze, stunned. “Sublime rendering,” he sighed. She stood up, pinched her thumb and fingers together, placed them against her lips, and blew him a kiss. “Chefs kiss yourself, asshole,” she said.
She bloomed in a crack of concrete, defiantly. Commuters passed, blind to her grace, but one man paused. He knelt, wept, and whispered her name—forgotten until that moment. The rose listened, then wilted, her purpose fulfilled. By morning, only petals remained, scattered like secrets no longer needing to hide.
The box I checked while ordering pizza online was for extra pepperoni, supposedly. Now I’m getting daily updates on cryptocurrency, cat yoga, artisanal soap, Bolivian tree frogs, mindfulness for toddlers, and gluten-free taxidermy. My inbox is a landfill of lifestyles I never chose, curated by algorithms with a god complex.
Cookie-jarring is the romantic strategy of keeping one poor fool on standby while you binge on others. It’s like emotional meal prepping—except instead of Tupperware, it’s Todd from accounting. He doesn’t know he’s dessert. He thinks he’s dinner. Meanwhile, you’re out eating tapas with Chad, who can’t spell “monogamy.”
She bakes one special pastry with care—cinnamon, apples, and arsenic. At the reunion, Eric alone has that one, still laughing about prom night, unaware she remembers everything. He compliments her baking. She smiles, knowing that by dessert’s end, justice will be served warm, and nobody will suspect the quiet girl.
