What’s new to read:
Now available at McSweeney’s: David Attenborough Narrates My Orgasm (My sincerest apologies to Sir David, but it was worth it.)
After a span of hours so unremarkable she could cry, Sam had found herself standing in the condiment aisle of a grocery store. She was a prisoner, surrounded by row after claustrophobic row of perfectly placed products, with perfectly designed packaging, lit by perfectly placed spotlights, mocking her, daring her to try to buy something amidst so much choice.
When the desk lamp opened its single eye, it illuminated various curiosities scattered across a makeshift desk. A jar filled to its lips with sea glass fragments, misfit buttons and pocket change from distant places. A dusty stapler atoned quietly for a lifetime of pierced paper and epidermis.
The paring knife slipped and sunk through the soft pink flesh on the index finger of her left hand, just below the second knuckle. She inhaled but remained still, watching as blood blossomed into a perfect sphere.