#NotPhoYourEntertainment

Over the past year and a half, May Tran (writer, student and professional procrastinator of Vietnamese descent) has been inundated with PR for two professional and sixteen-hundred amateur productions of Miss Saigon. The following piece has been cobbled together from segments of the largely incomprehensible fury essays she wrote during her frequent and violent rage blackouts.

Reflect by the Window

I remember sitting by the window, that impenetrable pane of glass, dreaming of my freedom, of my health, of my return to adolescence.

I’m pulled from my daydream. Dr K is at the entrance to the six-bedder, he’s got a slip of baby blue paper tucked under his arm and behind him I can see my mother poking her head over his broad shoulders. He shuffles in, a tired smile plastered to his face with cheap glue, my mom hanging right behind. How exhausted she looks: worry lines pronounced on her face, like ancient script etched into her forehead, the ink bleeding into the crevices and dips of her nose and cheeks. She smiles at me, and stands by my side at the window massaging my shoulder between her cold hands...

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Feminist Dating

One of the women at the last Moonlight Feminist Wine Club asked: does it make us bad feminists if our partner or the person we want to date does not identify with feminism? The women at the meeting all had different answers: some absolutely could never date a non-feminist and some are currently dating people who do not like to associate with the ‘f’ word. After the meeting the question stuck with me, and I think there are a multitude of answers and context is obviously key. I texted my close friend asking what she thought and she instantly replied “how could you love a person who doesn’t believe you’re an equal?”...

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Sisters

The room sways and swells with the juicy sweet lips of my sisters, oozing around in love and compassion hoping to welcome each woman into a cozy womb of our own creation. After years of being injected with venom, with my first step forward being told to crush the toes of the girls by my side, the smiles around me wash my face clean, each one says please, welcome, I believe the best of you already, and back at them, from behind my cautious eyes I hope they can hear the same. Words fall over us, in patterns I've never seen before. They rub and stroke from tongue to ear, each one a tiny matchstick placed to build a castle. 

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Female Eroticism

You wouldn't let your mother see you're uncertain of your capability you're disabled by the thrilling ecstasy, her melting eyeballs sunk by your admission, craving the crown of her pussy with hot wax dripping and carved calloused fingers trip into her it's a psychotic quest a loop a mess you submit but find yourself crippled by her infinitive recompense, licked and tricked to a dusty road with ugly old men carved by clammy communes and a fucked up pandemonium perhaps of somewhat gruesome lies I tried but I'm tired let's stimulate the wires in the mind if wires are what you see?

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