I hadn’t had any alcohol to drink in forty-two days.
I had told myself I wouldn’t drink for thirty but once you stop doing something it’s hard to start doing it again.

I agree to an extended death

I am yelling out the windows

of this speeding automobile

I had runoff all over. I hadn’t escaped the heartland.

Then the world boned its youth one worse. Even if you weren’t participating, they made not giving a fuck popular. 

I do not remember this, cannot call up the image. 

This has to stop— / you're a year dead. I shatter the mirror // with a glare, pace the hall carpet, / but others arrive by dawn, agitated // by thuribles, syllables scattered from / pulpits, daughters buttoned into pastel.

Lydia! What the heck is the hold up? How long does it take to throw a rope over a branch?

I’d pony up the midnight sun for a pulled pork sandwich.

We are launching a new project, HOBART HANDBOOKS, the first project of which is our Handbook on Baseball, collecting some of our favorite pieces from our last thirteen years of online baseball

In 2011, while addicted to heroin, I briefly delivered pizza for Zeppe's, a chain restaurant in rural Northeast Ohio. 

We are launching a new project, HOBART HANDBOOKS, the first project of which is our Handbook on Baseball, collecting some of our favorite pieces from our last thirteen years of online baseball

On the night during which the events of this essay took place—August 8th, 2003—the San Francisco Giants beat the Philadelphia Phillies 9-1. Barry Bonds hit a home run, yes, his 648th...

We are launching a new project, HOBART HANDBOOKS, the first project of which is our Handbook on Baseball, collecting some of our favorite pieces from our last thirteen years of online baseball

Well, you see the horns there. They're a good size, I think. And so me, I ask about them, I say, You got horns?

I began reading a PDF of Cult of Loretta, but stopped a few pages in. I’d already, by instinct, picked up the pen beside me several times. There were sentences to underline, pages to dog-ear. What

My friends told me they’d introduce me to May, but only if I understood that she’d been through a lot and didn’t need any more bad things to happen to her.

 fuck me here on this scabrous mountain while we all watch each other among sacred olives fuck away desire.

The story goes that Mario is Luigi’s brother. Nearly all we know about him is that he is a brother.

Rebecca and I read Atul Gawande's Being Mortal and talked about it.

I heard about what happened last week.
Oh yeah, that was just—
It wasn't right. I'm really sorry about that.

Robots, welcome to the punishment of a criminal!

His family was there. My family was there. My bouquet was made of flies. 

Sometimes we appreciate things a lot later in life than we should.

Authors in Flash Fiction International

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Words cannot possibly describe the utterly disgusting experience that was the consumption of this bullshit soup.

Watching the blood drain was the moment she knew/ that she didn’t have it figured out."