How they stabbed me and got away with it!

I guess my approach is not to take myself too seriously, which sounds kind of dumb and obvious, and just to write the sort of book I most like to read, which is usually something heavy but also light on its feet, fast-paced and horny, and generally not too full of itself.

Sometimes they say, You can’t really teach someone to write a poem, in which case you might answer, Well,
not you.

He came down my throat, I slurped it all up.

I didn’t want to write this essay, but I know somebody will publish it and feel good about themselves for platforming a disabled voice.

Our lovemaking is a demilitarized zone.

Shit, is this what the Zoom room people mean when they say fantasy addict?

This final image crushed me. It was a forewarning of what identity destruction can lead to if we
don’t truly understand ourselves to begin with.

I burst from every orifice but one.

i don’t think there will be booze
for sale, the style writer says, 
because it’s a synagogue

I am just a village idiot.

“You’re dirty,” you said to me, “I don’t kiss you because I think about how many dicks must’ve been in your mouth."

in the midst of a historic crisis, i ride my bike to the river

Everything tended to with love bears fruit they told me. 

Now I don’t care anymore. I’m writing posthumously; I’m invisible now – like an “aging actress”!

That every aspect of her life could have an expensive accoutrement was highly erotic.

I was sobbing too loud for the men’s room and I was in no shape to explain myself so I settled on the supply closet next to it. After a couple minutes of moping I got a BBM (we had to have Blackberries then, for whatever reason) from Jarrett. “Were fuck are you bro?”

There’s something unbearably endearing
about Pepto-Bismol in its retro European
packaging

How much would you pay to have an honest conversation with yourself?

He turns up late to almost all of his final exams, answers whatever questions he feels like and defaces the rest of the paper.

I vomited
up a prophecy in a dive bar,
inhaling hot dogs.

I lie in bed a long time before sleep comes. I wonder if I love Natalie or if I’m just so bored and I’m turning fleeting, tiny moments into full scale cinematic affairs in my head.

To begin abruptly: I’ve been some degree of suicidal since I was fourteen. I don’t think this makes me special. In fact, I think I’d be more of an individual if I’d always wanted to live.

A year wrapped in a day, a teardrop at the climax of every way that wounded, furthering the wounds.

I can tell she’s not convinced. But I’ve been Googling symptoms: confusion, nausea, loss of appetite, changes in sleep patterns, visual hallucinations, erratic behavior.

There is kind of a freedom in the humiliation of feeling a little bit trashy.