I'm trying to give up the opposite of humbling power; I am trying to blame myself.

Hang your hat by the peg near the window above your brown desk palette and then crack--not wide enough--pieces of paper tied together and costing you,  more than a normal person would spend on dinner, you'd sing this in an old man's liquor stained voice with a crack exclusive to the people who did not heed the cancerous warnings of what a pack of camels can do to your american dream, you figure the shoes fit better for Jane and Dick's style anyways.

Wieslaw Walkuski

 " . . .hang on," Sandra said to me, "add early grey and applesauce." So I started the car and forgot my original list. Not used to the un-freedom of shopping for himself plus one.

hang the spoon halfway beyond the dark spots of the dish washer and claim the empty house a coffin by swallowing a forgettably large sum of blue pills you bought for two-dollars cheaper than the aleve. meanwhile your small boned sibling recalls them, and "next time watch Charlie when she eats them." --the little one will hang up her dolls and scrub in and put on rubber gloves.

In 2001, Laura would look for signs from a stay-at-home husband, her neighbor, but only follow his dim windows long enough to notice a spilled trail of cake crumbs add point zero-two kilograms to her cold-slick scale.

And in a diary in '05:

This was the end of the beginning some might say, "the last visible residue." The curse of my dramatic cries, and screamed covered bee stings, and dry eyed horizontals made with the torn off piece of a soda can, in the same month I was giving up bubbly for lent. I later wrote that I should be accepted into, "your school," because I will produce yet another memoir about an alcoholic family, and doubly expose my point of view, and my estranged mother's, the press will eat it up, the writers will sip on it as they do a seasonal pumpkin latte, it will have it's time where a couple people tweet-relate it to that of Mary Karr, and Joan Didion, and dispose of any uniqueness left in the, "my-story!" medium. 

And in her lover's elegy Laura ventured:

  I could see your future in my quilts. And every time the brush pulls on my tangles, it hurts even more because with you gone, I cannot be in love. I must learn to sell what we had, wrapped up in newspaper, handed to people with dutch provisions, and a few packets of thick--to coat the smelly contagion of grief--mayonnaise. 

and at the end of her life she cursed God for being unoriginal,
cbnl