My Cardboard Balcony

And Then They Emptied Their Steins by Belinda Roddie Let's make a compromise to never drink warm beer by candlelight, to refrain from singing after six PM, to pray for rain when lightning sets the dry high grasses aflame outside. We'll put aside misguided attempts to seek out ghosts when it gets cold. We'll dip our fingers in hot oil and let the burns tattoo the dirty parts of our cuticles. We'll feel the lashes of fiery winds, gray with ash, in the middle of May. Our tongues are parched on holy water. No alcoholic suds will loosen our mouths so we lapse back into carefree conversations. Because we are rational human beings: Only capable of crying when it stings. Only laughing when the joke's gone too far. Only finally feeling the pain after our skin's been stripped away.

Central Park did not feel inviting to Shane these days. Not since the day that Casey broke up with her. In the end, it was all "This is better for us" and "We have to find different people" and "It's for the best" and any other bullsh** that came out of that girl's mouth. And she had said it after they got hot dogs from their favorite stand. Their favorite stand, God damn it. Shane had gotten extra relish and onions, too.

Tonight's Celebration by Belinda Roddie Sweetheart, blow out your birthday candles and make three extra wishes to keep in your back pocket. When the cake is cut, I'll meet you out on the deck for beer and s'mores, and we'll toast to another twenty more years before this town goes to Hell. Love, kiss me twice before you go back inside, to comb the confetti out of your hair and force a smile for your father. I'll be waiting outside, in this thick dragon breath summer, sipping lukewarm poor man's champagne and marveling at how the amount of stars I see match your age, such a small number, in the grand scheme of things.

You want proof? Proof that I'm a good person? Proof that I was never unfaithful to you? Go fuck yourself. Really? I figured my own words would have more value than your BFF's, or your mother's, or your sister's or brother's. Yet apparently, it's my words against everyone else's. Because they know everything there is to our relationship, huh? Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable.

Before It Was Cool by Belinda Roddie We don't drink from mason jars - we slurp boxed wine with crazy straws like juice pouches, then squirt the stuff between our teeth in random purple spurts, creating a fountain that stains the cheap kitchen table. Does bragging about that make us as bad as the hipsters, the tight jean'd, beanie'd coffee enthusiasts gentrifying the downtown? Maybe. I just like wine.

Frank peeled potatoes in the kitchen while I cut out newspaper clippings. It was for some sort of art project for Barry. He said his teacher wanted him to find vocabulary words and glue them onto some sort of household object, which would ultimately mutate into some sort of linguistic pun. I found an old broom we didn't use anymore, but Barry's hand still didn't work right since he broke it playing lacrosse, so I was left with the manual work while he perused his vocab list from the corner of the table.

The priest at my church called the youth group the "new flock," which felt so odd and awkward to me. It was like we were all impressionable lambs, ready to be religiously molded into bleating, compliant sheep. I know what Father Hendricks was attempting to do; he was trying to bring Jesus's own words into our activities. He was the shepherd of his people, after all. But I still didn't like the idea of being shaped into an obedient cattle animal.