"You would wake up every morning with a neurotic, uncontrollable urge to draw your dead mother—an image that haunted you in traffic pile-ups and hospice bathrooms—your mother on the kitchen floor, arms cocked like she was swimming."
"It was a cursed winter, people said. Unusually warm, even for California. They said: Girls of this generation are falling like flies. When it was all over—blood cleaned from the Christmas tree skirt—I wanted to shout in their faces: No, listen to me! We were free."
"Vogue says that she is angelic, moronic, a roxy confection. She is your Dream Girl. A golden retriever lesbian. Glossy-lipped all-American only-child beauty. She is misted and packaged and thin and white like an overpriced vegetable on a produce rack. Everybody wants to bite in."
Photo by T. McKerley