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When this is over, I’m going back to the West Coast. I’m going to find a cheap, humble house near the beach, get an old dog — maybe a retriever of some sort from the pound — and take long, thoughtful walks every morning at sunrise.
By Sherri L. HopperJanuary 2005Frost’s Original Letter Writer, a box of cassette tapes, a sealed letter
By Our ReadersDecember 2004The instructions that came with this incarnation aren’t easy to decipher. One sentence can take years, even decades, to figure out — and even then I can’t be certain I’ve got it right.
By Sy SafranskyOctober 2004Unplanned pregnancies, justices of the peace, sans shoes
By Our ReadersOctober 2004The charming and handsome serial killer Ted Bundy was executed on my birthday. Something about this fact brings birth and death full circle for me. I remind myself of this today, my birthday, as I am making dinner for my boyfriend, Lenny.
By Theresa WilliamsAugust 2004I opened my heart, and the world rushed in. But my heart wasn’t big enough to hold the world’s pain, and my heart broke. After that, I couldn’t get my heart to close again: not completely, not for long.
By Sy SafranskyMay 2004Then, while visiting friends in New York City, I sat next to the woman in question at dinner. We drank wine and ate sushi. She was so lovely, so warm, so rich in her attention to everyone and everything that I knew there would be consequences for me of one kind or another: soaring bliss or abysmal misery; probably both.
By Tom IrelandApril 2004Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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