Dopamine Somersault Blackout
Ray Downs
That comment got 55 upvotes. I downvoted it. I don’t have friends anymore
That comment got 55 upvotes. I downvoted it. I don’t have friends anymore
Getting chemical poisoning together seemed romantic, the closest you could come to being entombed, Pompeii-style, in each other’s arms.
all these changes in my life were made without my consent
This place looks haunted as shit.
You touch everything you see. You want everything you touch.
Uncle Dale says, “We’re lucky that none of us can fly.”
The human race was absurd and overwrought. Men were feeble-minded narcissists and women, acoustic blowhorns with an endless flurry of wind.
Against cloudless skies, any of the available disorders are at your disposal.
I said to Martin Amis once, told him Augie March is a jazz beat novel and he said his son reckons that
Now she wore a menacing permutation of the cheerful, customer-service smile he had seen her display earlier.
and what’s the point, really, of casual sex, except to melt the ghosts off someone’s face
There’s not a thought in the throb. Not an inkling in the coppery clatter of his mouth. There’s only the turn. Only the fist: fast, everything behind it.
She thought he was going to kill her this time, but that was one of the unspoken rules: no killing each other. Also: no kitchen knives, no purpose-built weapons of any kind. No screaming, either. Neighbors, the police—they wouldn’t understand.
In late July, in the mid-nineties, I begged Mom and her fiancé Paul to buy me a big ball at Roses department store.
I'm sure a terrible something has occurred at every inhabitable coordinate.
in the middle of the night i will sit on your leg on a swivel chair, watching your favorite music videos, galvanizing our similarities. we transport ourselves into the future.
I borrowed my mother’s car and went to the mall a lot and stole things, which I then threw into the dumpster outside. One time I drank an entire bottle of Nyquil and almost died, but nobody noticed.
For two years I worked in the office of a famous Christian singer as he approached the end of his life.
I didn’t like him at first. Seemed like a motherfucker. Girls-dripping-off-him-type, but rough. Scared me & pissed me off, how he looked me up & down. That force, that asshole face, eyes like daggers daring me to see what would happen if I didn’t.
Storm clouds dangle from the sky, the colour and consistency of wet cotton. Way back in the nineties, when long plastic sausages of cotton discs were a luxury that only the cornucopian West could
Is this new relationship self-sabotage in disguise, or is it the cure?
Garielle's longest, most peculiar, most particularized book. A sure-to-be collector's item. Not be be missed!