Ten Terrible Kisses from Long-Lost Literary Works, Part One

Flavorwire has compiled a list called 10 of the Greatest Kisses in Literature, which is great, but can we please stop swooning over Romeo and Juliet and start shivering in horror about literature's most awful kisses, instead? Here, for the first time in history, I've unearthed a decade's worth of Valentine horror stories from a compilation of ancient, lost, or mysteriously destroyed texts. Enjoy--and don't forget your chastity lip ring tonight. (It's like a chastity belt, but no one can kiss you unless they have the key. Also, your dad swallowed the key. Happy Valentine's Day!)

1. The "Lizard Tongue" Kiss from Pyramus and Thistle

Long after Pyramus and Thisbe died of their ill-fated love, there was Pyramus and Thistle, a charming novella from the early 1700's about a jolly bachelor and his librarian ladylove. Charming, that is, until this dark passage surfaces halfway through:

"Why, Mr. Pyramus," she breathed. "You're standing awfully close." It was then that he reached out his impossibly long tongue and gently licked her earlobe. She shivered in anticipation. "I love you," he said, and bent his head down and kissed her. "It feels like I'm kissing a thousand lizards," she whispered.

2. The "Smash Mouth" Kiss from Smash Mouth: A Super Authorized Biography

Remember the band Smash Mouth? Their manager wrote this biography, which was subsequently destroyed by a lunatic editor at Random House who insisted it was the worst piece of writing he'd ever read and then jumped off a bridge. In this passage, the lead singer reflects on a memorable groupie:

She kissed me and I felt like an All Star. I felt like I was Walking on the Sun. We Smashed our Mouths against each other for a while. Then I had to go back to the Astro Lounge and get ready for my next set. "You can be my girlfriend for the next hour," I told her. She looked pleased.

3. The "Creepy Tree Kiss" from Shakespeare's Long Lost Picture Book

Much speculation has been made about Shakespeare's missing plays, but in 1984, a professor at Cambridge attempted to free a bat that was caught in his chimney and instead pulled down a vital piece of chimney support, bringing the entire structure crashing onto his head. Once the rubble cleared, his grieving wife noticed a sheaf of yellowed paper protruding from one of the bricks. It was entitled "The Kissing Tree," and it was a picture book written by none other than one "Wm Shaksper."

"Lean closer," said the tree. "My leaves tinkle in the wind, as though they were the very soul of love, crying for her master." The little boy crept closer. "Place thy lips on my bark," said the tree, "for I kiss by the book."

 4. The Deleted "Parent's Kiss" from The Virgin Suicides by Jefferey Eugenides

Anyone who has read The Virgin Suicides knows that it is a lyrical masterwork, a gem of surreal prose-poetry. Thankfully, the author deleted some of the more awkward paragraphs from the book before sending it to his editor, including a passage where the Lisbon parents touch lips for the first and only time:

We watched Mr. Lisbon take the groceries from the car and walk up the front steps, staggering under the weight of the brown paper bags. There was Mrs. Lisbon at the front door, looking at him with a face like a sour crabapple. Their speech floated toward us on a soft breeze that reminded us of the sisters' collective, sighing breath.

"Did you remember the extra toilet paper?" said Mrs. Lisbon. Her husband nodded. We had never seen such an infinitely weary face. "What about the creamed corn? The canned peas? The maxi pads? The five gallons of Drano? The powdered milk?" He kept nodding, and his thinning hair wavered in the breeze. "Did you get the expired milk? You know it's cheaper," said Mrs. Lisbon. One final nod. She smiled begrudgingly and planted a hard kiss on the skin beneath his nose. It was the sound of a woodpecker against bark. From an upper window, we saw another Lisbon girl jump to her death.

5. The "Kiss of Death" from the Original Snow White

Everyone knows that the original fairy tales are way more gruesome than the Disney versions. But the original original Snow White, the pre-Grimm version, which dates back to the Ice Age, is more than gruesome--it's just plain freaky. When the Evil Queen finds out that the Huntsman hasn't actually killed Snow White, she flies into a vicious rage and gives him a kiss that means a lot more than "I kinda like you..."

The queen smiled--a slow smile that seemed carved out of ice. "Never fear," she said. "She'll die of the poisoned apple soon enough. But you, my dear huntsman, you'll have a different death." And with that she reached out and took his throat in one white hand. She squeezed until he gasped for breath. "Your lips are almost as red as mine, now," she mused. And with that, she bent down and kissed him, and her lips were shards of ice, and immediately all the blood in his body became snow. "Sleep now, my huntsman," said the queen, caressing his frozen cheek. Now her smile was a secret inward thing, like a dying creature trapped beneath the thick ice of a frozen river. 

Terrible. Absolutely terrible. Stay tuned for part two, lovebirds!

How to Tell if Your Friends Think You're a Serial Killer

Insecurity: the plague of our overly-self-aware post-postmodern times. How many of us have shivered beneath a pile of blankets, listening to the wind keening through the eaves and wondering what our friends really think of us? How many of us have collapsed under doubts of our own self-worth, frothing at the mouth as we scream, "Will anybody love me for me?" And how many of us have bitten our fingernails to the nub while the tears pour down our faces like blackened rain, asking ourselves that difficult, age-old question: "Does everybody think I'm a serial killer?"

Have I got a treat for you! Here are some easy ways to tell if your friends think you're a serial killer.

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Do they pretend to be deaf when you ask to meet their cute friends?

Do they give you strange looks when you mention doing your laundry in the basement?

Do you overhear conversations that go like this?:

"I want another beer."
"Me too. Grab me one?"
"No, can you grab me one?"
"I don't want to open the fridge first."
"I don't want to open the fridge first!"

When you recount tales of loves lost, do they ask, "So wh-what's he doing th-these d-days?"

Do they always, always, ALWAYS agree with you?

When they spill red wine on your pristine white sofa, do they chuckle nervously and say, "Don't kill me!"? And then do you hear another friend whisper, "Bleach will hide a whole lot of stains. A who-o-ole lot of stains..."?

Do they always arrive and leave in pairs?

When you visit, do they take you on a tour of their karate trophies, pointing out their multiple black belts and saying things like, "God help the fool that ever tries to break in and murder me! HAHAHA!"

Do you suspect that they have children--after all, there was that stray teddy bear behind the couch, those Cheerios strewn across the rug, the ghostly sound of pattering feet upstairs--but are never able to get them to 'fess up about it?

Do they panic when they get papercuts or hangnails around you, as though the scent of blood will drive you wild, like a shark?

When you say, "I'm just trying to get ahead," do they scream, "WHAT?"

When you say, "Something is afoot," do they scream, "WHERE?"

If you answer "yes" to more than one question...
...that's totally fine!
No judgment here!
GAHHH.

People Doing Adorable Things at Intelligentsia

Despite the fact that our universe is hurtling toward a bloody, fiery destruction (PS: the world is obviously not going to end in ice, Robert Frost), everyone is being so adorable today and making me really happy. Here are some of my observations on people being cute and happiness in general:

As I was watching The Artist with my boyfriend and his cute shaved face yesterday, I realized that women are so much more beautiful when they smile and laugh. I was like, "Damn, his wife is ugly, too bad that hot young bid is about to steal him away," and then I was like, "That young bid isn't even pretty in a traditional way but she's always smiling!" And then I got my face permanently re-sculpted into a smile so I will always be beautiful.

Right now I'm sitting at the end of a communal table at Intelligentsia, and I just watched two sweet people, sitting across from each other, engage in the most innocent, adorable, brief flirtation. The man leaned toward the woman and said, "Do you want some of this coffee? I'll never finish it." (Intelligentsia gives you extra coffee in a little glass pitcher if you order a larger size.) She chuckled and agreed, and they proceeded to talk about everything from coffee to his acting career to their respective names. He was an actor, visiting Chicago for the week, and she kept giving him the most adorable suggestions: museums and shows and quirky little restaurants to check out. I was screaming, mentally, "GO FOR A WALK IN MILLENNIUM PARK TOGETHER!" but unfortunately their love was not destined to be consummated today and she left. Now he sits next to me, texting rapidly. Perhaps he is updating his Twitter page.

Shortly after that eligible young broad left, a pair of Irish tourists asked me to take their picture in their irresistible lilting accents. I think they're a daughter-dad pair. Dying! Now they're gushing about the flavors ("flay-vehs") in their coffee. Seeing happy people is so good for the soul. It's like gazing at a beautiful field of poppies and knowing that those poppies will one day be opium, slowly killing a modern-day Dorian Gray (question: what is wrong with me?).

My second boyfriend, the Poetry Foundation, just hipped me to this amazing project called The Modernist Journals Project, where you can download entire issues of Modernist magazines for free. I'm so excited to read The Little Review: "Its modest title notwithstanding, The Little Review probably did more to promote modernism than any other American journal, representing in its pages dozens of international art movements and the leading avant-garde figures of the day. It's also where most of Joyce's Ulysses first appeared in print." Unoriginal observation of the day: I think it's so amazing that technology (The Future) can make the past so rich for us.

Jilted actor man is now staring at his phone and shaking his head. Perhaps he will offer me some of his coffee now--no? Okay.

The Value of Books

These are strange days for the publishing industry. The way books are published, sold, bought, and read is completely changing, and the oily-faced chief exec of Amazon is being, for lack of a better word, creepy: trying to cut out publishers entirely, devaluing the concept of "a book" by pricing ebooks so low. Amazon has seriously slashed our mental image of what a book is worth—we just aren't willing to spend real money on books anymore.

When you read the Yelp reviews of my favorite independent Chicago bookstores, there's always a handful of bitter Yelpers complaining about how expensive the books are at Myopic, or The Book Cellar, or Unabridged Books. These disillusioned readers love to moan, "Why should I buy my books here, when I can get them for 75% cheaper on Amazon?" (Why did you walk into a brick-and-mortar book store then, dude?) We don't think of books as something that should = a significant amount of money, and we feel oppressed or even repulsed by the idea of dropping multiple dollar bills on reading material. We won't spend $30 on books. We won't spend $20 on books. We might not even spend $10 on books. Because that's like two and a half caramel macchiatos.

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Like most literarily-minded people, I couldn't wait for Jefferey Eugenides' new book, The Marriage Plot, to come out. The second I saw it in the window of Unabridged Books, I ran inside to buy it. I was so ready to get my hands on that book. I was the ideal customer, a book publicist's dream: I saw the ads (yup, ads—Eugenides has a billboard in Times Square, so let's not, like, mourn the demise of fiction or the irrelevancy of the novel just yet, okay?), I read the Paris Review interview, I talked about it with all of my friends, and I was ready to buy on opening day.

I threw open the bookstore's door, I blew inside, I picked up the shiny hardcover and—OMG. A hardcover version of The Marriage Plot at Unabridged Books was $30. I think I turned to my boyfriend and said something like, "How am I supposed to spend $30 on this? I can't afford that! I'm a writer!" (I know, I'm the antagonist in my own essay. Me and Jeff Bezos.)

I bought The Marriage Plot a month later, at Powell's in Portland, because they were selling it for 30% off. So that was nice. I read the book in a week, buoyed by expensive coffee.

Now, sitting alone in my window seat, watching the rain pummel the delicate violets, I wonder: Why wouldn't I spend $30 on a hardcover novel—and not just any hardcover novel, THE hardcover novel, the one that everyone is talking about, the one that got a BILLBOARD IN TIMES SQUARE? Why? Why?! WHY?!?! I'm the girl that's like, "OMG, I love Goodreads, you have to read more Marquez, oh this quote on my fridge? That's Neruda, gah I love literature, why doesn't anyone read The Bad Girl so we can talk about it? Yeah I own several Fitzgerald biographies. Are you, like, illiterate?? OMG, my new Paris Review is here! How do we feel about Glimmer Train?" ANNOYING, I KNOW.

Here are some things I've recently spent $30 on:

1. Takeout from Indie Cafe. (I didn't finish my crazy basil rice.)
2. A candle. (Okay, it was a really fucking fabulous candle.) 
3. Two rounds of drinks at Hopleaf. 
4. Ingredients to bake a raspberry-chocolate-truffle cake.

I spend $30 on ephemeral, yuppie, indulgent things, without thinking twice about it, but to see $30 as the cost of a book—a book, a book, the thing that keeps us a little higher than the animals (and a little lower than the angels, maybe, since we're all so self indulgent?)—to see a $30 sticker on a book makes me pause, turns me off, doesn't fit with my concept of the “worth” of a book. A book does not = $30 in my brain.

The only people I know who spend real money on books are poets. And my boyfriend, who is a bass player and a real artist.

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A beautifully-done book is a piece of physical art—embossed cover, heavy paper. It's a piece of design work—the cover art, the typesetting, the jacket flap. It's a lot of editing work: conceptual back-and-forth between the author and the editor, line editing, copyediting, proofreading. More proofreading. Last-minute proofreading. A book put out by a major publishing house is drama and anticipation and literary gossip; a boook put out by a small press is a labor of love and a statement of faith.

A book also involves a fair amount of work on the part of the person who—what do you call them? Oh yeah, the "author." But I mean whatever.

A new, beautiful book is worth more than whatever discounted price you're paying for it.

Stop telling yourself that it's good to buy books as cheaply as possible because you're a reader and the more you buy the more you read, or whatever.

Please don't buy books on Amazon. Just don't. I don't care if that's where the future is headed, blah blah blah KINDLE FIRE. It's creepy and offensive to artists and it devalues your artistic taste. Reading full-price books is so fun (you can feel righteous and cool at the same time, which is a pretty rare feeling these days). Just go to a bookstore and drop some petty cash. You'll have a great time, I promise. Some bookstores even have entire porn sections! Food porn, that is. (Just kidding—Unabridged Books has real porn. And might I just say—yikes.)

$30 should be nothing for a book. $30 is kind of expensive for unfinished Thai takeout, but not a book.

10 Places You Must See Before You Die

1. America

Known to natives as "land of the free, home of the brave," America has something for everyone. If you want to see cool buildings, you're in luck--several of America's most famous cities are full of buildings. Looking for a great local bar? Simply head to the middle of any city or town and look for a sign that says "Red Lion," "Plough," or Tiki Palace." Itching to try some of our famous cuisine? Any major American highway is lined with tantalizing options--we recommend the legendary restaurant Arby's, pronounced AR-BEEZ.

2. Ocean

Ocean is a large hole, filled to the brim with pulsing, salty water. Return to your fetal roots and take a dip in the comforting intrauterine bath that brings life to the world and allows clouds to form and whales to survive. Also: mermaids!!

3. The Moon

No vacation is complete without a long stare at the night sky. Crane your neck from side to side until you spot a mysterious, shining orb. This is the "moon," a legendary ball of rock that hangs from the ceiling of the sky on invisible threads. Please note: "moon" is often confused with "sun." One simple way to tell them apart: are your retinae burning? That is not the moon.

4. Pasta with Parmesan

King Solomon's riches. Cleopatra's beauty. Pasta with Parmesan. Often called the "Venus de Milo of the Twenty-First Century," a steaming bowl of buttery pasta, lightly salted and sprinkled with curls of fresh Parmesan, is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Please note: keep an eye out for curly small noodles in a colorless broth. Con artists have been known to trick tourists into paying good money for this sight, attempting to pass it off as pasta con Parmigiano, but it's actually a cheap knockoff called Ramen. 

5. Not the Inside of a Hospital

If you have never seen the inside of a hospital, you have possibly had a great life, with the exception of--ew--your home birth.

6. Facebook's Deactivation Screen

Nobody who hasn't attempted to free themselves from the soul-sucking claws of Facebook at least once can call themselves an actualized human being. Facebook's deactivation screen is manipulative and strange--you'll be presented with a series of random "friends," as Facebook insists, "They'll miss you!" But they won't miss you. They won't miss you at all. 

7. Jupiter's Core

Have you ever wanted to be crushed into an exquisite diamond by unbelievable pressure and strange gaseous substances? Nothing is better than a Tiffany's ring--except maybe a glittering rock composed of your very own body. We'll bet good money that your soul's in there, too. Book your trip to Jupiter, today!

8. A Really Spaced-Out Baby

Not much is cuter than a baby drooling on his dad's arm, totally spacing out and quite possibly high. Hello there, lil' fella!

9.  Bros Talking Shop

Bored in a strange city? Catch some prime comedy by heading to your local coffee shop or gym and listening to bros talking shop! You'll split your sides wide open at lines like, "We're really taking the initiative by reaching out into formerly untouched markets," and "Can you recommend a great distributor with the skill sets I'm looking for?" A can't-miss attraction!

10. Graveyards in the Snow

If you really want to feel like an artist--or the Phantom of the Opera's next victim--take a stroll around your local burial grounds the next time it snows. The deep silence, the soft gray of the tombstones shimmering through the snowflakes, the stone angels with their temporal crowns of white, the strange snow-covered lumps on the ground that cannot be confirmed or denied to be dead bodies--it's a life-changing experience.

Salted Caramel Macaroon...or Seed Money?

Disclaimer: I am financially illiterate. Are dollars the same thing as dimes? That's what a homeless man told me. He said, "Can I have twenty dimes?" and pointed to the twenty-dollar bill I held in my hand. I said, "Well now, that doesn't seem like an unreasonable request," and gave him my debit card. Don't worry! I wrote my PIN on the back of his hand, along with my phone number.

It's payday! Burdened by riches, I dragged myself to the nearest Intelligentsia and ordered a salted caramel macaroon, which cost approximately as much as a muscular pack donkey costs in Chile. If I were your average college-educated English major who didn't join a sorority but is still kind of a biddy about things like expensive facial creams, I would have eaten that macaroon in less time than it takes for me to write a convoluted and difficult-to-follow sentence. But I'm not your average Vogue subscriber, specialty coffee drinker, and obnoxious Fitzgerald fan--and so, instead of eating that macaroon, I invested it. And you can, too!

Here's how:

Purchase your macaroon with the shiniest debit or credit card you own. As they say in the world of finance, "Bling bling, baby!" Translated into everyday-speak, this means, "Shiny things = rich!"

Sit down next to the oldest and least attractive man in the coffee shop. Old and unattractive men tend to be wealthy. Is his face strangely tight around the eyes, even though he must be pushing 70? Jackpot. This man is what the financiers term your "backer."

Make sure he catches a whiff of your gardenia perfume. Spray some in his face if you must. We all know that perfume came from CVS, girlfriend. It's not like you're wasting precious elixir.

When he turns to catch a glimpse of the elusive siren who smells like lazy summer nights spent skinning coons on Tara plantation, pick up the salted caramel macaroon and bring it closer to your mouth, gently licking your lips. STOP! Don't take a bite! Sigh delicately, and return the macaroon to your plate.

Your new backer will ask, "Something wrong with your macaroon?"

QUICK ASIDE: DID YOU REMEMBER TO WEAR FAKE EYELASHES?

Gaze up at him from beneath that Amazonian jungle of lash and whisper, "I can hardly bring myself to taste it. It's so...expensive."

If he chuckles, use this opportunity to unbutton your coat, revealing the sackcloth and ashes you wear instead of real clothes. Tell him you're working on a novel if he doesn't get the hint.

Eventually, he will offer to buy you a house in the Hamptons.

Sell the house immediately. The market is bad! Good time to sell! Or--wait--is it a good time to buy? Ask the nearest man.

Invest that money in something that economics majors term the "checking" account. Basically, this means that you put your money somewhere and people babysit it for you, and you only have to pay them every time they think up a new fee. In a few weeks, you will get an even shinier debit card in the mail. That means your money is rapidly multiplying, like rabbits! I think. Now you can buy all the salted caramel macaroons your little heart desires.

Declassifying the Creeper Elderly

Samuel Beckett: bleak, tragicomic, postmodernist playwright and novelist; sworn enemy of the Creeper Elderly; arguably a Creeper Elderly himself.

Working Definition: The Creeper Elderly conducts his or her illicit affairs under a halo of soft, white curls, an adorably stooped back, and a tendency to cup one wizened hand around his or her hearing aid and chirp, "Excuse me, dear?" Creeper Elderly should not be confused with members of the Beloved Grandparents genus, although a Creeper Elderly may appropriate certain characteristics of a Beloved Grandparent in order to win your heart or guilt you into paying attention to their stories.

Manic Tendencies: Should the Creeper Elderly get ahold of a Facebook page, a Twitter account, or--God forbid--an iPhone with texting capabilities, expect to receive updates from the Creeper Elderly far more often than you would from your friends.

Skulk-o-Meter: Do the Creeper Elderly skulk, or are they merely slow walkers? This question has been the subject of much anthropological debate over the years.

Economic Benefits: Befriending a Creeper Elderly is not as black and white as has been formerly insisted (see: Deconstructing the Hidden Pocketbook: Insider Trading and the Creeper Elderly of the '50s, 60's, and '70s.). While certain scholars insist that friendship with a Creeper Elderly operates on a strict 1-1 ratio (you listen to their stories, they give you money), the most deviant of the Creeper Elderly are stingy with their riches, hiding them in old shoes, beneath mattresses, and often burying them beneath their herb gardens (see: The Dirty Dollar: Hoarder Tendencies of the Wealthy and Ancient).

Fresh-Baked Cookies: Not always.

The Kennedy Assassination: Much speculation has been made about the assassination of former president John F. Kennedy. Creeper Elderly are known for collecting massive scrapbooks of newspaper clippings about the event, which has lead to a top-secret FBI file on the genus as a whole.

Nobel Buzz: In 1969, Bertram R. Sperry nominated an anonymous Creeper Elderly for the Nobel Prize for Literature, arguing that the novel-length collection of Christmas cards, captions for old photos, and to-do lists produced by this anonymous wordslinger demonstrated the "rare combination of the qualities of both heart and intellect" that characterized the very first Nobel in Literature given to French poet and philosopher Sully Prudhomme. That year's Nobel was given to Samuel Beckett instead, an act which led Sperry to denounce the Nobel Committee as "ageists and luddites, all of ye!" Some have theorized that this "anonymous" Creeper Elderly was actually Sperry himself, but Nobel documents are kept secret for 50 years, so scholars of the genus wait for the year 2019 with bated breath.