Essays

"At twenty-three years old I still ask others to kill my bugs. I hate the feeling of the exoskeleton giving away. I hate the crunch, the squish of pus-colored goo that seeps out beneath a shoe or the folds of a napkin."

"There was something eerie about seeing a ship stripped bare, failing its original and only purpose to float and instead settling on the ocean floor like an old dog too weak to walk anymore. Water lapping at the leftover concrete echoed throughout the hull. From the outside, I’d thought it looked like a skeletal grin, but once inside, I realized that was wrong; the ship was a rib cage, and I had breached its chest cavity."

"Before we left that morning, the two men had warned us that octopus hunting was not for the faint of heart; after spearing the octopus you had to kill it quickly, and the best way to do that was to bite into its brain. Right between the eyes."