My Dad Liked To Boil A Squirrel

In Moments When I Question If I Should Be Having Kids, I Think Of All Those Phone Calls From My Sister-in-law, In Which, 3,000 Miles Away, I Hear My Nephews Screaming For Her Attention. I Tell Her I Have To Go Because I Am Packing To Leave For Europe, And Her Tone Flatlines: "that Must Be Nice."

When I Was A Teenager I Would Lock Myself In The Bathroom For Hours, Bouffanting My Hair Like Patty Duke And Trying To Recreate Barbra Streisand's Flawless Eyeliner, Only To Comb It All Out And Wash It All Off Before Stepping Out Into The World A Butchish Bisexual Teen.

When I Think About The Idea Of Rebel Wilson Having To Go To The Oscars And Not Having Something Amazing To Wear That's Made For Her, It Drives Me Mad.

I'm A Great Believer In Karma And The Vengeance That It Serves Up To Those Who Are Deliberately Mean Is Generally Enough For Me.

We Were A Small Group Of Weirdos And Baby Punks And Gays And Free Spirits Who Had To Use Our Imaginations A Lot. We Only Saw Pictures And Read Zines, So We Could Only Interpret The Aesthetic And Message Of Punk Scenes Around The World. We Were Basically The Duck-billed Platypuses Of Punk.