Here in this filthy, real, honest, beautiful book of short fictions by Megan Martin, we get shotglasses of poison reflecting on a thin layer of dark clouds forever looming around our homes and desks and continents. Nevers feels so apocolyptic in describing a total frustration with a disconnect from the rest of the world. The domestic becomes both highlighted in its singularity with the universe and entirely and darkly disconnected from it.
“I would like to note how truly amazing and breathaking it is that so many of us are still alive, how despite eroding sequins and lost harilines, we continue to bloom and rot and bloom, on and on and on like galaxies and bacteria and ants.”
All of this framed by obsessions with ex-boyfriends, a totally perfect number of appearances of the word “fuck,” and an entirely depression-fueled sense of humor; one that seems to serve as a type of salvation.
“There used to be this thing called privacy and these other things called secrets, mysteries and wonderings. Meanwhile there you are, a bookshelf of French literature Photoshopped behind you. I type out, ‘The internet persona you project is a Renaissance lie!'”
These things are short and lovely and frustrated and addicting. They’re sick of the way things work, sick of institutions, and sick of feeling both helplessly attracted to it all and hopelessly disdained.