I didn’t plan it—the marriages, divorces, houses in the burbs, kids, dogs, cats, hamsters, SUVs, and trips to Disneyland. I didn’t say I’m not responsible. But none of it was by design. Who knew what it meant to be an urban male with expectations and responsibilities? I never dreamed of cutting grass, fixing toys, repairing the garbage disposal, burying the cat under the roses, or working numb hours. It wasn’t like there was a set of instructions, like someone gave me a script and said, “Here, read this.” It was all guesswork and improvisation. I’m just saying, “WTF, over.”


Jim Woessner’s writings have appeared in the Blue Collar Review, The Daily Drunk, Close to the Bone, and elsewhere. He has an MFA in Creative Writing (whoopty doo) from Bennington College, and he works as a visual artist and writer living on the water in Sausalito, California.