“How do you say, I am the wolf.”
“Je suis le loup. Tu es mon loup. You are my wolf.”
“Je suis le loup,” I say.
Marissa:
I try very hard to be polite and normal, like manners are weirdly important to me given I'm a huge fuckup generally but my inner world is probably a less palatable version of Helen’s 💀💀
Anna:
You’re out here trying to be a good happy girl
Guys, you’ve got Earl fucking Palmer out here in LA. The guy played on “Tutti Frutti” for chrissakes. You don’t think he could be part of the next hot thing?
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.
i think the other end of seinfeldian is like
tiny things really sharply observed
Few are lucky enough to realize when their destiny is laid before them. I am one of the lucky few. Mine came when my parents suggested a cruise to the Mexican Riviera from Christmas to New Year’s Eve.
I begin to write a eulogy for
a guy who doesn't exist.
But she is always here, always too strong to evaporate into some kind of hereto after.
I have no interest in living another 360 years. The folks I get along with have about died off and the world will be on fire by then. I’m blowing my brains out.
Can't spoil what's ahead but suffice to say I may attempt to falsely accuse a fellow indie writer of war crimes in a psychotic bid for even more attention
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.
SHELDON LEE COMPTON: The aliens actually showed up. They only communicate through images and demand you show them one overall image that explains our civilization. You have five minutes to Google Image search. What do you type into the search bar?
LEAH HAMPTON: “Image of Donald Trump shitting on an endangered butterfly”
Eventually, the coke got to his head. He started becoming extremely paranoid. I was on a trip.
I was ten when my mother first took me to a psychiatrist. He put me on Zoloft at her request. My relationship with pharmaceuticals is my longest running one to date. My normal.
Chris snaps the seal of a Jack Daniels shooter and pops the brown sugar down his throat. Tommy pops Vicodin: Coronado eats a stick of dynamite and blasts his brain with meth, no judgement.
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.
Chronic illness already made dating hard. And then the pandemic arrived.
“I almost forgot—” my childhood friend interjected as we were wrapping up a phone call on a blustery September day. “I
What I mean is I write auto-biographical fiction and as such I’m a habitual and unrepentant liar-liar-pants-on-fire sheep in wolf’s clothing.
Once, I thought I would forgive. Now, a year later, I’m still waiting for the feeling to appear
