The only thing grows faster than corn here is despair.

i am on the bus
i think

I was six years old.
He was a German Shepherd named Andy.

A life spent on your tiptoes, trying to fish the moon from the sky is, in fact, very good.

The other half was the memories of the end. The time Teddy had threatened to burn the only copy of my novel.

crushes and snorts several thousand milligrams of sildenafil on a nsfw livestream and masturbates until his heart explodes

Chemsex stops for nothing. 

They were a bull dyke in a bull dyke’s body, so God refusing to LET [THEM] DIE was more like, fuck.

MIDGE: i tipped the guy $6 and i never tip in ubers

He struggles to come up with actions that give him a sense of joy or purpose when she is not around.

the sexiest quality in a partner was the ability to space out

Do I break up with my Venezuelan surfer and move back to Alaska? I debated. Or bring him to the U.S. and marry him?

"I reached out to Cosmo online! They’re doing a segment on terminally online gays with non-terminal cancer!!"

Abigail’s face blotched with hot blood. I made my way to the back of the room, ordered a whiskey at the open bar, repainted my lips cherry red.

Yesterday, The Coffee Cart Guy on 38th and 6th had sex with Rachel on the floor of his metal breakfast cart. 

The humid air mingling with my warmth stretches my sense of self this morning. Settling again into my day, I guide myself to the kitchen to make my breakfast. The routine comforts me. I’m tragically

Then, she reached out a slender arm and Max thought she was going to grant him magic powers, but she just took the rest of his Pringles.

He says he feels like all his problems would be solved if he stopped going to that bar.

he flashed a toothless grin, all James Dean California Cool, a tan blonde blue-eyed surfer type. I imagined him as the boys Lana sang about.

Things that make sense: plants, deer, video games, sushi, beer.

When taking drugs of this caliber – drugs that show you death’s light – there is always some part of you that wants to die.

When she looks back at me, there’s a saturnine hopelessness in her eyes I understand too well.

The artist class?

Wild as the jungles they came from,
where boas flexed around their trunks —
like my other brushes with miracles,
the men who love you back, how they come
to you, gorgeous and invasive,

where Mother had hung on the wall
our Hogarth prints and crucifix