My Cardboard Balcony

A Toast To The Troublemakers by Belinda Roddie Sometimes, she can't decide: Is she an alcoholic homosexual, or a homosexual alcoholic? Both are pretty equal elements of her life, sharing the same living space, drinking the same wine, kissing the same girls after getting liquored up just perfectly after six o'clock in the evening. They tell her she needs to get help, and she knows it; she knows it every morning when she wakes up with someone new. She knows it when the pancakes and the waffles at the local diner don't taste as good as they used to, and they won't serve her mimosas anymore. She knows it from the bewildered expression on her latest lover's face, one that wonders how in the holy Hell she's still not sober. How she never seems to be sober. Or maybe she is, but there's really no difference anymore. And she'd love to cut the booze intake, let's be real, but as soon as the honey wheat stops flowing and the Cabernet gets ...

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Doing The Dirty Work by Belinda Roddie I couldn't afford a funeral for my jackass of an eighty-year-old father, so I shoplifted a shovel and buried him behind my brother's house. Then I went back to my own yard and used the same shovel to dig as big of a hole as possible to jump down into so I could be away from the weight of the sky for a while. When you came to see me, and you found me curled up at the bottom of a self-made pit, giggling as if I were an impish child gone half-mad, you cried when I had really wanted you to laugh instead. You scrubbed all the dirt off me yourself, kissing me on all the tender spots rubbed raw by both the sponges and your erratic, dancing fingers. At least you didn't leave unwanted tattoos on my skin like sweet Daddy's belt buckle did on weekdays after two glasses of whiskey, neat. We grabbed take-out once I was squeaky clean, and over burgers and onion rings, you asked me how I had managed to walk out of a hard...

It was called the Blue Heart Institute, and its workers all wore black coats. Long black coats. They walked up and down the corridors with blank faces and clipboards, muttering to one another in a language that was not meant to be understood by anyone but them. We found the name "Blue Heart" to be fascinating, as if the whole organization were lacking oxygen, struggling to breathe and flourish in a cold, hollow space.

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by Belinda Roddie "I'm just saying, you could be a slutty gym sock." "How." "If you cut holes in all the right spots." "Fucking how." "Just wear all white, dude! And make yourself look all ratty and old and stained. But show off that midriff." "Dude." "And accentuate the crotch." " Dude!" "I'm just trying to help you out, man! You said you needed costume ideas." "And the idea you jump to is a slutty gym sock?" "Hey, man. Strawberry basil margaritas can kick you in the head like an abusive soccer player." "Wha - okay. Look. No socks. No sluttiness. Just throw out some generic concepts." "Ew. Boring." "John." "Boring! You can't be boring on Halloween." "Sure I can. Watch me." "No." "Get me a white sheet. I'ma be a simple ass ghost." " No, Aaron." ...

I wasn't going to lie: I felt absolutely excluded from my group of my friends in recent days. Maybe it was because of the weed, or the booze, or the fact that my car had broken down. Maybe I seemed useless to them. I had lost my value. I had been a valuable tool in the box, and now I was broken and battered. So much for any sense of friendship circle. I sat down in front of my computer and opened a can of soda. Alone.