There’s so much freakshow in you, Charlie, I thought: I love you, but, look, you’ve been treated like a citizen enough to have cop friends. Sometimes I think you think all creative expression falls under Reganomics. Then he’s in my face with six reasons why I’m hardly pubic or adjusted. Yes, I’m a pussy. I get it.

QUERY 5: About half the time, your APOSTROPHES and your QUOTATION MARKS don’t curl around the way they should— “ or ” , not " , and ‘ or ’ , not ' —which is how I know you are writing half of all your articles on your cellphone.

Jeff is driving me nuts. he's a fucking showboating liar. Walking around here like he owns the place. He only owns us.

Destiny's Child third album track # 1 she plays as if I don't already know what’s up. She just wants me to remind her she's a queen so I play Coming to America, and we're okay for a few more years.

If you’ve ever been asked to place your anxiety on a litmus test of 1-10 and have no idea what a 10 would constitute, then you know how jarring and disconnected this question could be. I thought about running away from the office, I thought about knocking over one of her plants 

Later at night she looked by the fires of Ohio at the burn on her palm 

She says the moon is just an overflowing ashtray with butts buried in the dark side.

He wore these fuck-you neckties (one looked like a whole trout hanging down his chest) and bad jeans dyed mint green, lemon yellow, cake frosting blue.

In the staff meeting she thought about enemas.  

Only someone whose amazing art can no longer hide them from the petty philanthropy hopefully juxtaposing the asinine incest of their crimes would issue such a dollar bill of a sentence. 

Fourteen tourists had signed up for “Six Days in Glorious Vienna: Open Plan,” and since Kotoko and I were the only singles in the group, it was inevitable that we ended up rooming together at the hotel.

A boy in your science class starts sitting behind you on the school bus. He whispers into your hair that he’s known about atoms for as long as he can remember.

In nearly every used book—bought, borrowed, or salvaged—I’ve found them. 

You all don't seem too keen on fiddling here with bloody Henry.

I look down Rue Acorn. Along the red brick factory I live in. And at first all I see are parked cars. Shadows. And the slow moving Sunday traffic farther up the block. Along  Rue Saint-Rémi.

You were right, I tell myself with confidence, there are no fucking fallen dogs out here. Just a sack of rice or side of beef. Plain and simple.

I keep coming back to the church.  

I’ve been told, he said, you can make a house out of magazines. Roll them up and seal them in something and stack them up in a grid formation. There are supports, of course. Has to be a framework.

I was drunk and coked up and thought it’d be a good idea to cut through some strange wooded area. Then I was completely underwater. 

I tell you I wish my dad would come out as trans like Caitlyn Jenner &/or late-in-life gay like my ex-boyfriend’s father.

Every night since she stays in, thumbing the wheel. She burns napkins and cotton swabs. She burns whatever she can find.

On your way home from work,
you stop at a liquor store for smokes.

Our friend Stacy Kranitz, who is a (super talented) photographer, invited Scott and me to go to Skatopia’s 20th Anniversary Bowl Bash in June. Of course, we said yes. Here is

Sometimes my brother would randomly run through the house saying the outsiders sat perched in the trees, they had guns aimed at every window in the house, and we’d run to the basement and whisper our last words to each other in the hiding cabinets