by Leigh Camacho Rourks

on suburbia, godzilla, and briny beauty.

There is something about the suburbs, not the suburbs of television and ultra hip New York writers, not the suburbs of Suburgatory and The Stepford Wives. Not the suburbs of the writer I know who told a student (in workshop) that she could only write about her suburban home with irony, who implied authenticity only happens in cities and rural farmlands. And certainly not the suburbs of our mostly urban dwelling classmates who laughed and agreed.

There is something about MY suburbs, the liminal spaces between concrete and forest. Continue reading

at least say maybe.

There is this quiet little war rustling through the internet. The introverts vs the extroverts. There are memes and quizzes and snappy little articles everywhere I look, and while most seem to take shot at the extroverts, I suppose the introverts would tell me the war started in “the real world,” where their nemeses reign supreme.

It is an odd little war to watch. All in good fun, I suppose.

Catch me at most parties, and you will know immediately which team I play for.  I am loud. Really, really loud. My voice is loud, my movements are loud, my clothes are loud. My personality is like Fran Drescher with a bullhorn. Continue reading

i don’t even own a whip.


When I was a kid, I imagined my future according to a certain paradigm. Let’s call it a Spielbergian worldview. On some level, I really believed that I would spend my adult life running from nazis in the jungle or saving aliens from The Man. It wasn’t just Indian Jones and ET that fed my delusions, though. Everything pointed to an adventure filled life. Continue reading

say something funny.

Somewhere between the advent of beepers and Facebook, email chain questionnaires were born. They were ugly things, devoid of html formatting or interesting content. Each one had more questions than you cared to answer, most of which were the sorts of questions that had no good answers. One questionnaire could meander past your breakfast, through your sock drawer and land right on the weirdest way you could think to die. And by the way, if you had a goldfish, what would you name him? Continue reading

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