This 4th grade book report is supposed to be at least 500 words. I couldn’t right only 500 words about the Grapes of Rath if I tried!! That's how good this book is Mrs. Weinburger. Mrs. Delores Susan Weinburger. Are you ready?  Here we go!

The saddle of the purple loaner bike squeaks when I pedal, and the wicker basket hangs from the handlebars with zip ties—if I turn too quickly, it slides around and attacks my knees. It’s a 20-minute ride to Kastrup Søbad from the AirBnB in Christianshavn.

For the meringue of my early life:

4 large free-range egg whites  (There were five free-range eggs in the nucleus recipe; the younger atom I.)

While out at Bullman’s Pizza with Ty and Caroline
to celebrate the job offer my mother watched
her most recent ex-husband arrive with a woman

miss the lake back home
so I drove to the ocean
mussels always taste like the waters they’re from

They have boarded up the place, emptied out the popcorn machines, and the carpet stinks of butter and mud as it is torn from the flooring.

When a cat comes to lay at your feet
you never ask why, but you do
hold still for as long as you possibly can

I show up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in a MoMa hat. “Oh fuck,” I text my friend. “And?” she replies. This is only embarrassing in a self-imposed, insular way. No one actually cares.

It’s a very comprehensive plan, so I want you to listen carefully when I tell you what I think should be done with all the babies—

Step one—we put the babies on an island.

the ground
into being, what does that say about farming?

I am made of the ocean, but it is not made of me. I know this because it refuses to mix with my body, its many micro-organisms keeping me firmly on the surface.

They tell you grief comes with permissions,
a hall pass, an extension, a moment's reprieve.

The digital Snail that lives in my head has been trying to reach me about my car’s extended warranty

I’m trying to get into a life of hedonism
but I honestly skew more towards prude.

I cut my knuckles on wood and stone and stone and wood, but only to find oil in lieu of blood.

Close your eyes: imagine you are hosting the perfect barbecue. Feel the warm sun, now the cool breeze. Everyone is here, it’s the perfect blend of friends, enemies, and potential lovers.

I find him in the kitchen making sandwiches, as men do, not with marmalade but with mandarins.

Where’s New Haven?

On the walk from Gray Matter to The Graduate, and past the couple on the steps singing a light-hearted jingle about Adderall, we overhear an old man asking, “Where’s New Haven?”