Most of the conversations were boring. Too many back and forths with men she either found only mild to medium attractive or so peculiarly hot that they must be bots. Too many men relating her skin color to some sort of food item.

He produces a handgun from under the seat, displays it, points it up toward the sunroof.

Right away we shared amphetamines. He fed them to me to keep me awake.

We were children once, but we aren’t anymore. At least, that’s what Magda says.

I tell him that next year I may hang myself—that’s the funny thing about life—you never know what it’s going to throw at you.

I like to hang out with models. Models, like Chip in Rent Boy, understand the “strange desires of men.” They live a life of the body.

S is for sponsor who you really should call.

I scrolled through lifeless, overlit live streams as my routine of cycling through the usual forums and apps began. For me, a lot of the attraction came from being able to project my desire onto a performer.

I am not an ideal, couldn't be one if I tried. And I have. Many times. 

and by the way, I wear jeans too, and I’ll fuck that white girl, absolutely, from the commercial, the camera trails her on the beach, she’s smiling, now she’s hiding behind her hands . . . 

They put her flyer on their mailboxes and look at me like she’s dead.

He never notices my tears.

Seeing a picture of my tits online didn’t bother me as much as it should have. 

With snot running down my chin, weeping, I allowed myself to entertain the possibility that this key situation would go on forever.

I have to believe that what I am writing — what I am living through — means something.

The Utah girls were already asleep. Unlike me, they were going home in a few days.

She started to ride by his Marigny shotgun until he came out and became her boyfriend. Her boyfriend, a chef who meets with narcotics anonymously, orchestrates impromptu dinners in the backyard of a liquor store. 

And then Greta. I found her crawling toward the lake, on fire.

There is no hotel breakfast. No air conditioning. No Tour Guide singing in the next room.

When you peed in the cup, Herman was behind you, watching.

‘Did you talk about capes,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Mary said.

But I don’t even know what a collective is. And I can’t remember if he had tattoos.

One weird Halloween everybody dressed up as Elliott Smith.

I was taking a new drug that was making it so I could talk to my car. 

We loved her but expected her to go on and on, weeping with her flowers and crown, reciting poems.