It was day three of the Democratic National Convention and day 19 of my short tenure as a Chicago resident. I had the day off work, and nothing to do but get on my Hunter S. Thompson shit and poke my nose around the old DNC to do some gonzo journalism.
You will never truly know Valerie, because you will never find my son, nor hopefully want to after his trite art project that is endangering us all is laid to rest by what follows.
When I told one of my professors that in my lunch hour, I’d met with a writer named Elizabeth Wurtzel, the old man rolled his eyes:
“That book was such garbage. She tried to write a second book, and a third, but they flopped.”
Imagine what happens inside gated communities behind closed doors, even in homes owned by a retired cop and special education teacher! I had nothing but my body and when I used it, I was called a devious animal.
It is a widely known fact that Arledge created Monday Night Football in conjunction with the American Suicide Watch as a way to stymie a flood of Monday night suicides.
I hook up with a nineteen year old at my big age. Driving over, I tell myself: act doting, let him initiate everything, he’s topping anyways, he has the power, you could pass for being two years
The only clothing I wore was an adult diaper to which almost every older male crew member made a comment.
“When the president says your name in anger, the shit has hit the fan.”
—Ice-T
How I angled myself. How I smoke inside. How things leave impressions.
“I used to buy cigarettes here,” I inform him. I give bite-sized details about myself like this.
I knew my assumption was flawed. Not all heterosexual fucking was violence.
Sitting there and watching them I unexpectedly got the radiance. My body felt light as a flower, my breathing itself gave me great pleasure and my hair seemed to fly up and outward like wispy silk. I smiled and then laughed. Peter and Melita looked up and laughed also. Such musical sounds. Little bells.
Like all bad people he is only bad for a millisecond at a time.
The darkness of the nightclub is an airborne aphrodisiac, a medium fixating through more or less “real” encounters among empaths of mind, emotion and body. At their center is the glitter globe,
She kept pulling my hand towards her clit but I was too tired to actually fuck her so I busted onto her milky tits.
The best thing for the future of a word like consent is to just stop talking about all of it.
In 1902, he finally cut off his own penis with a small knife that he'd managed to smuggle into his cell.
I hover above the toilet, my thighs rock hard as they hold my body in a seated position. The walls are covered in yellowing images of women from the 70s. Half-clothed, their nipples are big and
He hugged me, kissed the top of my head. “I was wrong,” he said. “Just be grateful I’m not drinking. I can’t do more right now.”
Video surveillance is for your safety
I lost my thought and now I can't do anything but listen
Writing is only anything if you can sublimate or depreciate the original thing into a
They say you shouldn’t feed the trolls, but trolls are an essential component of the culture.
I think sometimes what people mean by “likable” as opposed to sympathetic or goodhearted is “conforming to my idea of what behavior I should aspire to.”
now Icarus has gone swimming and I see him in the Sun
I’m sleeping with another writer who won’t stop talking about his Ex.
