The man that killed the world is being lauded as the better of the billionaires because he launched a cloned app that bans you if you aren’t positive. It’s like if you were stuck underneath a boulder
His dreams fill with bell towers, stabbing deaths, his lifeless body dragged by split fingernails into consciousness.
In their blue jeans and Carhartt beanies, the boys are nearly as pretty as the girls who’ll never fuck them.
They buy a gram of coke and a gram of k because everyone knows that girls love drugs.
True story.
You know Urmquast Meldoofi? The guy who writes the homeless features for The New York Times? Published a book not too long ago about the plight of the homeless in small urban
They say The Cloud is a bad metaphor for the internet because this makes it seem immaterial and like its presence doesn’t have a real physical impact on the planet. They say to remember the server
But how did I get it into my head, so early on, that friendship is something you’re supposed to have with only one person, and it’s supposed to be engulfing, and you’re not supposed to survive it?
“You don’t want to be a lesbian,” she said. “Trust me. It’s a tough life.”
I never see Russell differently, I always see him in the same light under the same sun. It’s been difficult lately, but we used to have so much fun. I wonder if he remembers the tequila shots and us
I could hear the cheering of the crowd, their silent plastic mouths were happy; I could taste the dirt kicked up by the elephants, smell the liquid butter sediment of cheap popcorn.
Now is the time to pass down his knowledge before it’s lost in a jail cell, or beyond the reaches of death.
“Are you looking under Entrees?” I asked.
He whipped his menu around. “No, it's in the Nibbles section. See where it says C-section shrimp, amid a local microgreen slurry?”
“Yes.”
Everyone knew that they weren’t supposed to blame Margot for Joey’s suicide, but they couldn’t help themselves. It’s human nature to place the blame, sort out cause and effect. See a bullet wound,
I’m my mother’s best friend. I fear she is my only friend. My mother and I live alone together in the San Fernando Valley. We used to own two cats, both male, but they pissed the bed, my bed, so I
I feel like God with dyspepsia. My soul is vibrating at ultra-high frequency. I want to leave my body. I want to throw up.
There’s makeup running down my face with sweat, but it somehow feels apt.
Josephine Aycock’s boy, Jeremiah, was due to start middle school that autumn. In the sun-soaked months spanning summer break, she found herself praying for the thirteen year-old more than usual. He
Crush ten pills into a fine powder, then stir thoroughly in a glass of warm water. Put the glass in the freezer and let sit for twenty minutes. At this point, the mixture will have separated.
They all knew the drugs. But they hadn’t seen each other in years. The drugs were doing well. The drugs were doing fine. The drugs were good. The drugs were good to run into again. The drugs were taller, maybe? Or, stronger?
Waitresses circled the room like vultures. Sometimes I dreamt of laying down on the hot sand, my spine fusing to it, nerves sizzling, going blind from the light, my chest cavity ripped open while they pecked around my ribs—the waitresses, I mean—for whatever they could salvage, whatever was still good.
So I guess I’m an animal then, aren’t I? Why? Why was I born?
She sits in the grass in her special place and she does her meditation. It is the place she has carved out for herself in the world.
Relentless torrents of rain poured down that whole night, gently lulling me to sleep.
Love is like a museum. You have to look around, experience things, and then leave.
Garielle's longest, most peculiar, most particularized book. A sure-to-be collector's item. Delivery 4-6 weeks!
"Is this the actual diary you wrote at the time? The diary reads a lot like a novel, with its motifs of the murderess, the acupuncturist, etc." -Garielle Lutz, author of Worsted and The Complete Gary Lutz
