top of page
The Collected Writings of
One minute Sonia “Sonny” Faber blamed herself—I’m totally undisciplined. Next minute she decided, No, it’s my thyroid. My metabolism’s gone haywire.
Any case, her rear end was in danger. It was Monday morning. She and her potentially big fat ass and her taxi from the Near North Side of Chicago were approaching her office building on La Salle Street. All weekend long she’d been feasting on ice cream. Closing her eyes now, she watched the herds of rhinoceros-sized chocolate molecules—more than two quarts of them—stampeding through her bloodstream. . .
SONNY FABER always has new adventures.
Please watch for them. They'll be arriving soon!
bottom of page