And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
And the language obscene An engine, an engine, Chuffing me off like a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
To the person in the Ball jar, the world itself is a snow globe. Or an arbitrary signifier of a woman’s inherent value as demonstrated by domestic handiwork. “I wonder who’ll eat your cake pops now, Esther.” “I really wish you’d stop talking, Buddy.” He grinned again. I brought a friend for you to meet.” A tall man in black with a meinkampf look walked into the room.
is a searing semi-autobiographical look at Sylvia Plath’s struggle with mental illness.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true.
So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You -- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through.
It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they tore down the Confederate monuments, and pool noodle crafts were trending. The idea of all that hot glue and the fumes of melting foam make me sick, and that’s all there was to read about on Pinterest — pool noodle wreaths made with colorful flip-flops, pool noodle sprinklers, pool noodle floating beverage boats, pool noodle cupcake decorations and birthday candles and garlands for kids’ parties. Twelve of us had all won a contest, by writing tweets and blogs and Instagram posts, and as prizes they gave us jobs in New York for a month, and piles and piles of free bonuses, like pipe cleaners and tiny pots of paint and stencils and knitting needles and straw baskets and mason jars.
Especially mason jars, with “Ball” swirling in cursive so we could paint it and then distress it so the word would stand out on our centerpieces and kitchen utensil holders. ” Doreen lounged on my bed in upcycled boho gaucho pants made from thrift shop skirts while I typed up a blog post about how to seal your painted, distressed jars with finishing wax. Wear the peplum top you refashioned from an old dress.
“Shut up, Betty,” Doreen said, shoving an avocado egg roll into her mouth. “Well if it’s food poisoning, don’t blame the avocados,” Doreen said.
“You probably ate something with gluten.” I started adding up all the things I couldn’t do.
Then I would try to make paleo white chicken chili or cupcakes decorated to look like owls, and then I’d spoil it so nobody would ask me to do it again. I didn’t know how to make adorable mushroom pencil toppers out of sculpey.