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

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?

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

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.

The artist class?

He stole my Tupperware, the largest one in a glass Pyrex set.

His white face is red. Mom taught me that people turn red like tomatoes when they’re drunk. I look around and see pink and red faces all around me.

Sex would remain forever yoked to this school shooting, grief combined with an uncanny moment of clarity: life won’t be the same after this, regardless.

PS: My computer is really going nuts. If I can use one of your spare ones, I may need it sooner rather than later.

Sophie had recently gone through a break up. I don’t remember her ex's name. I do remember the striking legibility of the word VIOLENCE. 

One day at the school for disturbed children I attended, a boy lit his pubes on fire.

The first thing I killed was a coyote. Grandpa pointed out that the coyote was a mother. Her belly sagged a few inches above the grass. Her front right leg caught in a wire trap. Grandpa handed me his

At night, we lay on unmoored mattresses, pressing hands over our eyes to block out spears of light from the street. We cursed our naked windows.

My fantasy of Lockwood started to deflate like a balloon with a tiny hole.

She feels bad for being taken aback before; she really is a very nice doctor.

In the anatomy lab, we are peeing into cups to check for any abnormalities within the urine

/pəˈzeʃ.ən/

One morning I woke up with my right scapula in my mouth. You would think that is physically impossible, but in the case of demonic possessions it is actually more normal than not.

I tolerated Marcus and Haley because I knew their drill. Marcus would pick me up with drugs coursing through his system

My wife watched me walk headfirst into a mirror.

I reminded myself that I spent just as many lonely afternoons in the State Library of Victoria with a pile of international Vogues as I did at a Goodwill in the Valley.

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.

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

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."