Now there is a skeleton outside my window. And skeletons on all the dating app profiles.

This marriage project
What a blast

The face in my mirror keeps getting older –
Into the face of the man who beat me

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 thought maybe I would learn something about how to be less judgemental, or something.

Every winter, the Jersey Shore freezes into an old car in the driveway, tarped and bricked until May.

A few minutes later I was presented with a tall, condensation-covered glass, containing an opaque, dark-green liquid that looked like it had been skimmed off the surface of a stagnant pond. I took a tentative sip.

How they stabbed me and got away with it!

I guess my approach is not to take myself too seriously, which sounds kind of dumb and obvious, and just to write the sort of book I most like to read, which is usually something heavy but also light on its feet, fast-paced and horny, and generally not too full of itself.

Sometimes they say, You can’t really teach someone to write a poem, in which case you might answer, Well,
not you.

He came down my throat, I slurped it all up.

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.

Our lovemaking is a demilitarized zone.

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

This final image crushed me. It was a forewarning of what identity destruction can lead to if we
don’t truly understand ourselves to begin with.

I burst from every orifice but one.

i don’t think there will be booze
for sale, the style writer says, 
because it’s a synagogue

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."

in the midst of a historic crisis, i ride my bike to the river

Everything tended to with love bears fruit they told me. 

Now I don’t care anymore. I’m writing posthumously; I’m invisible now – like an “aging actress”!

That every aspect of her life could have an expensive accoutrement was highly erotic.

I was sobbing too loud for the men’s room and I was in no shape to explain myself so I settled on the supply closet next to it. After a couple minutes of moping I got a BBM (we had to have Blackberries then, for whatever reason) from Jarrett. “Were fuck are you bro?”

There’s something unbearably endearing
about Pepto-Bismol in its retro European
packaging

How much would you pay to have an honest conversation with yourself?