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I try to shake it loose-but these ideas, they cling. It's like I'm shackled to them with an iron chain. They rattle along behind me, dragging against the ground, always reminding me of their presence.

Maureen Johnson

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Maureen Johnson
Age: 51
Born: 1973
Born: February 16
Author
Novelist
Writer
Philadelphia
Pennsylvania
Ground
Cling
Behinds
Loose
Along
Chain
Behind
Shake
Shackled
Ideas
Shakes
Pensive
Trying
Iron
Rattle
Always
Chains
Dragging
Like
Presence
Reminding

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Some nutter's gone and pulled a Jack the Ripper.
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Oh my God! said one of the Ambers. Is this not the worst trip ever? Did you see the snow? She was a sharp one, this Amber. What would she notice next? The train? The moon? The hilarious vagaries of human existence? Her own head?
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She looks like a jumper to me. Jumpers do that a lot, stand on the edge and stare out. Never kill yourself in a Tube station. Tip number one. You might end up down here forever, staring at the wall. Stephen coughed a little. Just giving advice, Callum said.
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The locker at the end of her bed had no lock, and one of the hinges was busted. She opened it up. There was a thing in it. The thing might have been a sandwich at some point, or an animal, or a human hand...but what it was now was fuzzy and putrid. A minute later, Ginny was down the stairs, out the door, and gone.
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I feel warm and reassured, I whispered. He's like Santa.
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I may have been a complete lunatic, but I was a complete lunatic with manners.
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We study there a lot because... what other choice does society give us, right? It's Starbucks or death, sometimes.
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Well, what now? You have no job. I have no job. Wanna play Jenga?
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No sausage? he asked. Apparently my pork consumption habits were a matter of public record.
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I have no phobias. Phobias are irrational. My fears are rational and CAREFULLY CULTIVATED, like roses.
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I like you because you were mad. And you're pretty. And pretty sane for a mad person.
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Sometimes artist like to catch themselves looking out, let the world see them for once. It's a signature. This one is a very bold one. But this is also a witnessing. We want to remember, and we want to be remembered. That's why we paint.
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What tinfoil? he asked.
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Once again, her parents' problems had run through her life like a piece of heavy equipment, smashing everything in their way.
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A woman who shaves or otherwise depilates her pubic curls has a profound interest in recreational sex.
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Prefects. I had learned this one. Student council types, but with superpowers. They who must be obeyed.
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Do you ever sing in the car? Generally not. But I am driving a police car. I think people would like a singing policeman. Makes life seem more like a musical. Like Foot-tastic. You can talk for a long time about nothing. I certainly can, you charming man!
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The essay I had to read was called, An Essay on Criticism by Alexander Pope. The first challenge was that the essay was, in fact, a very long poem in heroic couplets. If something is called an essay, it should be an essay.
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