True story.
You know Urmquast Meldoofi? The guy who writes the homeless features for The New York Times? Published a book not too long ago about the plight of the homeless in small urban
Augmentation, arrangements, verities, varial flips . . .
Marissa:
I try very hard to be polite and normal, like manners are weirdly important to me given I'm a huge fuckup generally but my inner world is probably a less palatable version of Helen’s 💀💀
Anna:
You’re out here trying to be a good happy girl
They say The Cloud is a bad metaphor for the internet because this makes it seem immaterial and like its presence doesn’t have a real physical impact on the planet. They say to remember the server
Guys, you’ve got Earl fucking Palmer out here in LA. The guy played on “Tutti Frutti” for chrissakes. You don’t think he could be part of the next hot thing?
But how did I get it into my head, so early on, that friendship is something you’re supposed to have with only one person, and it’s supposed to be engulfing, and you’re not supposed to survive it?
The Jessicas, a clique of girls all named, you guessed it, Jessica, were especially mean.
Linsday Lohan smoking freely on the leather couch in the corner when she was supposed to be on house arrest at Chateau Marmont, and she came nightly, in fact, and always hugged us all at the end of the night, when she would leave to fuck our manager,
“You don’t want to be a lesbian,” she said. “Trust me. It’s a tough life.”
I could hear the cheering of the crowd, their silent plastic mouths were happy; I could taste the dirt kicked up by the elephants, smell the liquid butter sediment of cheap popcorn.
Now is the time to pass down his knowledge before it’s lost in a jail cell, or beyond the reaches of death.
i think the other end of seinfeldian is like
tiny things really sharply observed
“Are you looking under Entrees?” I asked.
He whipped his menu around. “No, it's in the Nibbles section. See where it says C-section shrimp, amid a local microgreen slurry?”
“Yes.”
Not all her parties were sex parties and she didn’t always call me her girlfriend, but we rode that late summer into an Autumn of mostly lesbian orgies. Sabine driving the car, everyone else an
Few are lucky enough to realize when their destiny is laid before them. I am one of the lucky few. Mine came when my parents suggested a cruise to the Mexican Riviera from Christmas to New Year’s Eve.
I begin to write a eulogy for
a guy who doesn't exist.
I’m my mother’s best friend. I fear she is my only friend. My mother and I live alone together in the San Fernando Valley. We used to own two cats, both male, but they pissed the bed, my bed, so I
Everyone knew that they weren’t supposed to blame Margot for Joey’s suicide, but they couldn’t help themselves. It’s human nature to place the blame, sort out cause and effect. See a bullet wound,
Lately, it seems like all the women I know are leaving their husbands for other women. I moved from the big city back to the small Southern town where I went to college, and they began to flock to me,
On the drive from our apartment to the emergency room, you take Fullerton through DePaul’s campus. The silence between us makes sense, but without even your usual pop punk to pad it, it feels
The final weekend of January I boarded a plane to Seattle to see, for the first time, a man I had met on a kink website. Or, as I had considered multiple times over the last two months during which we
When i stopped remote viewing my wife / we stopped being married
But she is always here, always too strong to evaporate into some kind of hereto after.
I feel like God with dyspepsia. My soul is vibrating at ultra-high frequency. I want to leave my body. I want to throw up.
There’s makeup running down my face with sweat, but it somehow feels apt.
I have no interest in living another 360 years. The folks I get along with have about died off and the world will be on fire by then. I’m blowing my brains out.
Today I saw a goose stare down an suv and thought of you.
it got to the other side of the road and tore a few feathers out
following me from a table outside the coffee shop to my car.
I think it
Josephine Aycock’s boy, Jeremiah, was due to start middle school that autumn. In the sun-soaked months spanning summer break, she found herself praying for the thirteen year-old more than usual. He
I should have called out, “Marry me,” followed by your name, in that quarter-second of dead air.
Nothing too prosaic, nothing too provocative, just four beats, a stunted swirl of “M”s and “R”s.
My
