Hire Me, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, As Your University’s Next Creative Writing Professor
Gimme a classroom full of second-string lacrosse players who are thirsty for validation---this mama’s fixin’ to teach creative writing!
Gimme a classroom full of second-string lacrosse players who are thirsty for validation---this mama’s fixin’ to teach creative writing!
Moby Dick by Shakespeare would have seen the white whale be able to speak and he would have sassed Ahab to his grave.
You name it, I’ve been through it. Casual flings. True love. Nits. Pink eye. And I’ve been a truthteller and a trendsetter through it all.
Mother slapped me. She was a former NYPD detective, eighty-eight years old and in the early stages of dementia.
An orange squid has entered my dreams, watching me practice my ascending spin and barrel sculls with languid disinterest. I cannot banish him.
New Yorker cartoons: You love The New Yorker. You READ The New Yorker. But 9 times out of 10 you buy The New Yorker for those sweet, sweet cartoons.
"I don’t have any fancy degrees. I’ve never read Murakami. I’ve never read anything, actually. I can’t speak English and I’ve bitten people."
Dear Joan, I looked up your name on LinkedIn---because that’s how much I care about this job. I seriously need you to hire me.
"A Room of One’s Own" by Stieg Larsson: But, you may say, we asked you to speak about women who don’t take any shit and the stories they tell
In the office of your old English professor, the one who took arbitrary points off and wrote "doesn't work," with his lifeless body as a footstool.
We stormed into your backyard like Viking hordes, and heaved your precious boy into a burlap sack, the rough fibers scratching his tousled hair.
Someone once said that "All That" is for the very young and the same people when they’re 28 and nostalgic. For me, "All That" is a moment in time.