When it starts to hurt too much, I pretend that I was a swashbuckling murderer in Tahiti in a past life, or maybe a poisonous dart frog that murdered a particularly beautiful toucan.

I think about the puppies I drowned in a sack in Czechkoslovakia in the winter of 1691, and how much I would have dug having my own cobbler and a troika.  I imagine that I was one of those really sexy 18th century serial killers in London, that I drank dainty appertifs and spat witticisms at dudes in ascots who would never know my secrets. I must have kidnapped sheer legions of women in lace pinafores, and they must have all loved me tragically and been damned for it, too.

I must have done something bloody and lascivious, something demanding centuries of penance. Really, I hope I was an evil motherfucker. I must have sneered and worn an eyepatch–I better have worn an eyepatch–to have deserved you.

Sorry it’s been awhile. More importantly: Art by Lizzy Stewart.