There Is A Rhythm To The Ending

I Don't Cook. My Mother Didn't Cook. My Daughter Doesn't Cook.

I Thought Of The Nameless Inventor Of The Bathtub. I Was Somehow Sure It Was A Woman. And Was The Inventor Of The Bathtub Plug A Man?

Every Time We Hit An Air Pocket And The Plane Dropped About Five Hundred Feet (leaving My Stomach In My Mouth) I Vowed To Give Up Sex, Bacon, And Air Travel If I Ever Made It Back To Terra Firma In One Piece.

Any System Was A Straightjacket If You Insisted On Adhering To It So Totally And Humorlessly.

Writing About Sex Turns Out To Be Just Writing About Life.