Gertrude

Brain fog, limp dick, half ate chicken breast in front of me.  Today is dreary.  I barely feel alive.  Can’t finish the rest of my chicken breast.  Gave away two loads of swimmers that could have been saved to shoot into someone else’s hot wife.  The emptiness and dullness of today is enough for self-mutilation. 

I Want to Run My Hand up Her Fish Net Covered Popliteal

The psyche is formed through assimilating physical compliments.  She was given less compliments than the other one.  Her soul was stronger.  The other one’s soul was abjectly unrousing to my platonic attraction of her.  Despite this, I feel more towards her.  Feel more, towards a vapid piece of flesh.  And the truly beautiful one: my

New Year’s Flakes

Looking in retrospect at my rejection: Was I too stupid, arrogant, a bad kisser? Were my lips too chap? Did she see my chub while walking out of the hotel lobby after making out? It could’ve been her. She could’ve been waiting for the comforting post-date-text; thinking I would reject her, she rejected me. It

Tin Can Lost on an Interstate

Thirteen hours in a stuffy tin can, packed full, leaving no crevasses available.  Leaving was an odd feeling- like finishing a book.  Feelings of nostalgia rushed in, making my past into something sentimental, old, and sad.  It’s a feeling of understanding you’ll never get that time back.  The good and bad memories will never be

Fear and Loathing During a Blizzard in Iowa

Snow flying into the wind shield of a Chevy S10 like the millennium falcon taking off at light speed.  They were lost on a gravel road in the barren landscape of Iowa.  It was a winter wasteland outside; drifts obscuring everything, but twenty-five feet of visibility.  Inside the S10 was a consoling interior that felt

Served With a Side of Ego

You get yourself sold back to you today.  The lost generation: selling you shit is made easy when you’re pummeled by confusion, narcissism, and soul-homelessness.  Experience is obsolete in this world; being something is the current ideal to strive for.  Being for the sake of the disgusting self that believes it’s better than all the

Ron and a Hospice Chaplain

Life was straight forward to him.  If he knew what a paradigm was, his life would be marked by pleasure.  His hedonism wasn’t the least bit glorious; there were no jaunts, no benders, no adventures.  The life of Ron was a long-drawn-out ride.  Today, like any, he ordered pizza for delivery.  Despite his unstructured day,

A Game

Against things.  Hate things. Feel guilty, disgusting, pathetic when I give in.  The monk inside, ticks away from the pressure.  Soon, I will be living in a cupboard with nothing but a desk and twin-sized bed.  Holed up in a shack somewhere, deep in the woods or getting lost in the numbers of a city. 

Serendipitous Breakfast Club at Walmart

Why is it all so peculiar? Why can’t I have a normal life, where I savagely hunt squirrels to bring back to my wife, who will then concoct squirrel-jumbo for me? Pretty much, I want to be a crude animal who has no thoughts at all. I guess working forty hours a week, watching shitty

To All Writers

I think I’m done writing. The truth is starting to unveil itself to me: it’s a clever sham that has me believing that I’m doing something. I am doing nothing. I am an indolent-inertia mass of shit. The effort it takes, is at best moderate. The courage it takes is none. It is a frivolity