Cragged rock reaches skyward, gaps in the green either burn scars or metamorphic bands.
We finish dinner and the waiter comes with shots of limoncello for the table.
64
What violence is there in giving someone a name, carving out Ida's real name
of these fourteen strips, lacing up the endless observations each day
in the deformed images of words that tell
“We come here once a month,” the woman added. “To spice things up.”
I don’t want anything serious. But come to raves with me. Take drugs with me!
I laugh and say, “is that a Rupi Kaur poem?”
A recap of New York's biggest night.
Part of making art is religiously making as much as you can when creatively inclined and then shaping what’s there.
If Miami were a person, she would have veneers from the same dentist who does her Botox
Tina joins our class mid semester. Instantly, I dig her aura. She shares the relaxed gait and slow drawl of the local stoners. She wears her dark hair flat and parted down the middle and has an
Over coffee, he told me he thought I dumped him last time because we had sex too soon.
Her umbilical right to intimacy makes me wonder if I ever left the womb.
I was convinced I would die. A lone cig, maybe three gin spritzes, benzodiazepining into extinction. Ativan.
“When we were young, we had momentum. We were winning. We were best friends. Everybody seemed to care more. Everything seemed to matter more back then.”
~ Hot Tub Time Machine (2010)
On
The pain reminds me: I am here. I am real. I matter.
It is only for an hour or two that I get to panic about pregnancy before the blood starts.
Michelle understood my frustration. She diagnosed Peter with “terminal vagueness” and agreed it wasn’t my job to financially support him.
Hoarding is bad and it’s equally bad when all that indie music doesn’t hit the spot anymore
Did I want to fuck her? Or did I want to be her?
It’s the question everyone asks but I’ve never felt it until now.
We shouldn’t have become friends. Everything about our separate lives suggested we wouldn’t meet—me in the comfort of my sunny Los Angeles home, framed by blue skies, and Frank confined by barbed wire
The hamster was actually a mouse. We were calling a lot of things by the wrong names back then.
Silly’s hands were tangled in his hair. His gaze snapped back to mine. “You didn’t hurt me, Elle. Not at all.”
It was the summer of 2018, and I had just returned home to California from Italy, where my relationship exploded after we had lived together for only four months.
Perhaps this is why trans people crave romantic love with a curdling, obscure undercurrent of self-doubt, of rage.
After three flights, two chicken buses, and a strange bout of illness, I arrived in El Nido, a small backpacker nest at the far edge of the Philippines.
Love is like a museum. You have to look around, experience things, and then leave.
Garielle's longest, most peculiar, most particularized book. A sure-to-be collector's item. Delivery 4-6 weeks!
"Is this the actual diary you wrote at the time? The diary reads a lot like a novel, with its motifs of the murderess, the acupuncturist, etc." -Garielle Lutz, author of Worsted and The Complete Gary Lutz
