Words

She said a lot of things. Vernacular vomit. She said things, and intended things, and wanted you to agree but secretly admired those who could resist agreement. But mostly, she just spoke.

"Oh my God, I feel like a hot dog about to explode in the microwave because you didn't poke holes in it."

Relentlessly followed by, "You know, Michelle?"

She would say it in that tone. That alluring tone that made you want to shake your head and be her slave. And in the moment, it was the most profound thing. Yet it meant nothing to her.

"This is like string cheese. Except not cheesy."

She'd always give a little chuckle when she realized she was vomiting again. But sometimes, she'd start off with a "listen to me" and turn down the dial on whatever faux-classy music she was listening to. And she'd mean it.

"Good writers will face persecution. You do not change your writing because someone tells you to, or it feels a little uncomfortable. You go naked, or not at all."

And she was right.