In the first meeting of my creative writing class, the instructor ripped pages from the most recent issue of the National Enquirer and distributed those tear sheets to me and my classmates at random. From those tear sheets we were supposed to use snippets from the articles to create found poetry.
I ended up with parts of stories about Bill giving Hillary weight loss advice, OJ’s daughter considering visiting him in jail, an overweight couple who lost an enormous amount of weight together, a woman who stabbed her husband multiple times, and Chelsea Clinton’s newlywed blues. This was my on-the-fly piece:
While she was criss-crossing the globe—shattering glass ceilings and walking on sunshine—he was at home, racing on treadmills and Stairclimbers.
The honeymoon was already over.
“Trophy husband” sounded good in theory; he just never realized the masculine version of “barefoot and pregnant” was “rock-hard abs and an obsession with the Juicer.”
He was mocked in public for his place. He just knew it.
She doesn’t make all the decisions. Just the ones that count.