Elizabeth Leiknes

Deep down, Story Easton knew what would happen if she attempted to off herself__he would fail It was a matter of probability. This was not a new thing, failure. She was, had always been, a failure of fairy-tale proportion. Quitting wasn__ Story__ problem. She had tried, really tried, lots of things during different stages of her life__irl Scours, the viola, gardening, Tommy Andres from senior year American Lit__ut zero cookie sales, four broken strings, two withered azalea bushes, and one uniquely humiliating breakup later, Story still had not tasted success, and with a shriveled-up writing career as her latest disappointment, she realized no magic slippers or fairy dust was going to rescue her from her Anti-Midas Touch. No Happily Ever After was coming. So she had learned to find a certain comfort in failure. In addition to her own screw-ups, others_ mistakes became cozy blankets to cuddle, and she snuggled up to famous failures like most people embrace triumph. The Battle of Little Bighorn__ thing of beauty. The Bay of Pigs__elicious debacle. The Y2K Bug__orgeously disappointing fuck-up. Geraldo__ anti-climactic Al Capone exhumation__ops! Jaws III__eaven on film. Tattooed eyeliner__yelids everywhere, revolting. Really revolting. Fat-free potato chips__ood Lord, makes anyone feel successful.

There once was a woman named Story Easton who couldn't decide if she should kill herself, or eat a double cheeseburger.