[Fiction] A baby’s arrival stirs up difficult memories:
I sat with the baby in the living room, setting her on a clean blanket. When I tired of watching her, I stretched out, resting my hand on her stomach. I fell asleep with the baby staring at me, her eyes wide open.
In the morning, my boyfriend kicked my foot with his heavy work boot. ‘What the fuck is this?’
I sat up quickly, holding a finger to my lips. I stood and pulled him into the bedroom. ‘Anna Lisa brought the baby last night. She can’t take care of her anymore.’
“Break All the Way Down.” — Roxane Gay, Joyland
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[Fiction] A baby’s arrival stirs up difficult memories:
“I sat with the baby in the living room, setting her on a clean blanket. When I tired of watching her, I stretched out, resting my hand on her stomach. I fell asleep with the baby staring at me, her eyes wide open.
“In the morning, my boyfriend kicked my foot with his heavy work boot. ‘What the fuck is this?’
“I sat up quickly, holding a finger to my lips. I stood and pulled him into the bedroom. ‘Anna Lisa brought the baby last night. She can’t take care of her anymore.'”
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Published: May 26, 2012
Length: 24 minutes (6,184 words)
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A new book explains how “social jet lag” is interfering with our internal clocks:
Modern human beings are not much like mimosas. It’s true that both have biological clocks, but only one of us has culture. And culture, delightful as it is, turns out to radically complicate—“fuck up” would not be an overstatement—our relationship to time.
Among species, we humans are to time what Polish villagers have long been to place: unhappy subjects of multiple competing regimes. The first regime is internal time: the schedule established by our bodies. The second is sun time: the schedule established by light and darkness. These two we share with houseplants and virtually every other living being. But we are also governed by a third regime: social time. That sounds benign enough, like afternoon tea with a friend. But don’t be fooled. Social time is the villain in this drama, out to turn you against health, happiness, nature, sanity, even your own inner self.
“Cuckoo.” — Kathryn Schulz, New York magazine
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A new book explains how “social jet lag” is interfering with our internal clocks:
“Modern human beings are not much like mimosas. It’s true that both have biological clocks, but only one of us has culture. And culture, delightful as it is, turns out to radically complicate—“fuck up” would not be an overstatement—our relationship to time.
“Among species, we humans are to time what Polish villagers have long been to place: unhappy subjects of multiple competing regimes. The first regime is internal time: the schedule established by our bodies. The second is sun time: the schedule established by light and darkness. These two we share with houseplants and virtually every other living being. But we are also governed by a third regime: social time. That sounds benign enough, like afternoon tea with a friend. But don’t be fooled. Social time is the villain in this drama, out to turn you against health, happiness, nature, sanity, even your own inner self.”
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Published: Apr 29, 2012
Length: 10 minutes (2,562 words)
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On the 25th anniversary of “Licensed to Ill,” an oral history of the birth of the Beastie Boys.
Then we were like, ‘Oh, shit, we should get a D.J.! Like rap groups. They have a D.J.!’ Nick Cooper knew about this guy Rick Rubin who went to NYU and would throw parties and had turntables. And a bubble machine. We were like, ‘If we had a fucking D.J. and a fucking bubble machine, we’d be fucking killing it.’
“Rude Boys.” — Amos Barshad, New York magazine, April 24, 2011
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[Fiction] A teenager’s grief and its aftermath:
“Years later, you would wonder if it hadn’t been for your brother would you have done it? You’d remember how all the other guys had hated on her—how skinny she was, no culo, no titties, como un palito, but your brother didn’t care. I’d fuck her.
“You’d fuck anything, someone jeered.
“And he had given that someone the eye. You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.”
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Published: Apr 23, 2012
Length: 21 minutes (5,357 words)
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[Fiction] A teenager’s grief and its aftermath:
Years later, you would wonder if it hadn’t been for your brother would you have done it? You’d remember how all the other guys had hated on her—how skinny she was, no culo, no titties, como un palito, but your brother didn’t care. I’d fuck her.
You’d fuck anything, someone jeered.
And he had given that someone the eye. You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.
“Miss Lora.” — Junot Diaz, The New Yorker
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[National Magazine Awards Finalist] [Fiction] A tattoo artist meets a middle-aged mom:
The woman stood in the doorway, twisting her head at odd angles like a goddamn owl to see our designs on the walls, before walking up to the counter.
‘Sure you’re in the right place?,’ I asked. ‘This ain’t no nail salon.’
‘Is Nate here?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘what’s up?’
‘Marion,’ she said, reaching her hand over the counter. I took it and shook. ‘You came highly recommended by my niece, Janice. You tattooed a rose on her hip.’
She looked at me like she expected me to remember. Shit, if I could remember every rose I tattooed on some girl’s hip, I’d be in the Guinness World Records for the best fuckin’ memory.
“Scars.” — Sarah Turcotte, The Atlantic
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[National Magazine Awards Finalist] [Fiction] A tattoo artist meets a middle-aged mom:
“The woman stood in the doorway, twisting her head at odd angles like a goddamn owl to see our designs on the walls, before walking up to the counter.
“‘Sure you’re in the right place?,’ I asked. ‘This ain’t no nail salon.’
“‘Is Nate here?’
“‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘what’s up?’
“‘Marion,’ she said, reaching her hand over the counter. I took it and shook. ‘You came highly recommended by my niece, Janice. You tattooed a rose on her hip.’
“She looked at me like she expected me to remember. Shit, if I could remember every rose I tattooed on some girl’s hip, I’d be in the Guinness World Records for the best fuckin’ memory.”
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Published: Aug 1, 2011
Length: 19 minutes (4,759 words)
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A writer tries to figure out if he’s any smarter than he was at age 17:
Many times, I had to skip a question because I couldn’t figure out the answer, and then I got that paranoia that’s unique to someone taking a standardized test. I became fearful that I had failed to skip over the question on my answer sheet. So every five seconds, I’d double-check my sheet to make sure I didn’t fill out my answers in the wrong slots. One time I did this, and so I had to erase the answers and move them all forward. Only I had a shitty eraser, which failed to erase my mark and instead smeared the mark all over the rest of my sheet. FUCK YOU, TRICK ERASER. I HATE YOU.
“What Happens When A 35-Year-Old Man Retakes The SAT?” — Drew Magary, Deadspin
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