My sister is more of a person than I am. She works at a bookshop and wears visually interesting outfits, ties up her blonde ringlets in a tall bun and ambles around our town in clogs. We hear her
A tired black horse lies down in a field, and doesn’t get up again.
MSN Messenger was the absolute dive of the internet in 2002
I also have a white t-shirt I like a lot that says JOHN PRINE IS PRETTY GOOD, but I don't actually wear it because it comes down to my knees.
If the Internet doesn't drain all the money soon I will kool myself )for real
It wasn’t nice to call her eyes empty, Sondy supposed. Guileless, most people would say. Furtive, is probably what they’d call Sondy’s eyes.
And now I am left wondering how The End of the Story might have been different, what more we might have found out, had ‘Vincent’ not been a presence in that flowered armchair, had Lydia not been conscious of him invoking rules: there shouldn’t be any intimate scenes.
Your Uber arrives and now you remember you’re not wearing any underwear.
I have a question for you. How did you bear it? That creeping loneliness, the way it whispers in the darkness. Sometimes, lying there at night after my own domestic and industrious day, I wonder how much longer I can bear it. Do you know what I mean?
I lie into the stone wall above the spa and flip open my copy of Less Than Zero to the corner I folded on 69. A passage on Christmas in Palm Springs.
“Girls like porn too,” she said. “Don’t be sexist.”
I go into parties wearing a long-sleeve t-shirt that says Bonjour on the front and Au
Revoir on the back, eating candy cigarettes.
That comment got 55 upvotes. I downvoted it. I don’t have friends anymore
I found a wallet today that contained $200, some credit cards, and some family pictures—my family now.
I get in bed, move my mouth over her nipple.
“Do you mind if I moan?” she says.
The cooks told me jokes with no punchline and sang popular Chinese songs while I chucked grasshoppers in the garbage.
I tell her this is all I’m getting, because this is all I deserve.
Getting chemical poisoning together seemed romantic, the closest you could come to being entombed, Pompeii-style, in each other’s arms.
In terms of a break-up, gonorrhea is a god-send.
all these changes in my life were made without my consent
I wanted you to count on me—if not as a lover, then at least as an object for your using.
Normalcy has no moment to collapse because it is absent from the start.
Sometimes he’ll cum on my face, and I’ll have to hear about it in one of his poems.
