those are balls

i'm on something. outer mind. out of my space. i've bene drunking again aha ha i'm on a planet and that's a girl "THOSE ARE BALLS" she is shouting at me i can hearitin my a space helomet and my oh no she is saying "CLOSE THE DOORS" not "THOSE ARE BALLS" but i am better going check my zipper aha ah just in case.

my balls are okay she cannot see them. i am ghoing overto her planet. he r plane it is called something and i am shouting "CAN YOU SEE MY BALLS" and  ahah a i can;t stop believeing that she is saying "THOSE ARE BALLS" and she is really shouting. oh the space ship and the door is ajar. hah ahh a the door is not a jar. the door is open and my other spaceship people might explofe in their faces if i live the door open becuase space will kill you.

there is space between yhe girl and between me. she is on that planet and i am floating i am on something i am in space and she is on the ground. i already know that goirl. that;s my girlfriend. what is happening my face is falling off. ther;es too much spacea nd you can;y swim in space air to get to the girl.

i will floating down to the planet and thell the girl something. "STOP SHOUTING AT MY FACE" i am shouting at her face to tell her my head is somehwere. i;m not drunk i am just a bit drinking. and i xan;t tell what is happening, its her face. i know it is herface. oh it;s my girlfreind. there;s too much space. space has rocks in it.

that girl is still shoutng and the planet is going away in space. i can;ttell you what it is. the girl. haha ah a why did she say "THOSE ARE BALLS" that is so funny i'm going to tell everybody aboyt it at work tomorrnow. now she's gone.

similies are like metaphors

we met and we danced and i taught you how to drive a car. the car is you. a 1989 hyundai excel with fucked up wiring. the fucked up wiring isn't you. this is a bad metaphor. let's flip it upside down and reverse it sideways. i am the dancing. i was bad. not a bad person. i don't know, i'm supposed to use metaphors. what it comes down to is you are really nice. i'm not very good with words. i mean i like you and when we are together it feels like something that feels really nice. fuck it. i'm just going to call you.

baby jesus killed my sister

dear baby jesus, please don't kill my sister. she's eight and she plays the clarinet. you gave her cancer in her colon and now she doesn't have a butt. it isn't funny that she doesn't have a butt. she can't sit down and she has to poop out of her esophagus. sometimes she disconnects the tube and sprays shit everywhere on purpose. it's disgusting. i know you are busy doing magic tricks and curing leprechauns but do you get a break? if you get a break can you please make her stop spraying shit everywhere? and also don't kill her all the way? if you only have time for one then can you just don't kill her? she's a nice kid even though she doesn't have a butt. and the spraying shit thing. and sometimes she wants me to play stupid baby games with her and i'm pretty sure she stuck gum into my headphones and can you tell her no she can't borrow my nail polish all the time. you could make her nails fall off. if you don't kill her i mean. it wouldn't hurt that much and she'd get used to it. this is a prayer. thank you baby jesus. amen. p.s., i finally got my period (thanks).

i love you

this is a typographical reproduction of a handwritten letter. it is a love letter. a poem. a story about love. a letter for you. you will never read this letter. if you are reading this letter, it is not for you. you don't know who i am.  i wrote the letter with my left hand and i folded it in two. i put it in an envelope and addressed it to you. i don't know where you live. i kept the letter under my pillow for a week. i slept on the letter and i dreamed about you. i dreamed about the words that i had written and i dreamed that i taught french at a private school in outer space. what i mean to say is that most of my dreams were about you. or the letter. but some of them had nothing to do with you. they were just dreams.

that's healthy. my love for you is a level-headed love. thought out. passionate but not obsessive. spontaneous but not monkeys with upside down faces. the letter isn't crude. it's romantic and i mostly wear pants when i read it. i read it a lot. out loud. i know it off by heart. i recite it to myself. it's about flowers and sunshine and fields of corn. most of it is not about corn but there's one part where i imagine myself to be a farmer and the corn represents our love. but not when it gets harvested, sold to the supermarkets, and eaten by people we do not know.

this letter expresses feelings of which i could never speak. unless i wrote them down and read them out loud. which i guess i am doing to some degree but if i had not written the words down first i could never speak them to you. i used a thesaurus a couple of times.

we will be together my love. breakfast at a restaurant that overlooks the beach. the sausages do not represent my penis. i just like sausages and you are eating pancakes, which you have folded over into the shape of a vagina. i will be nervous and you will hold my hand. you will touch it to your lips and joke that it smells like bacon because i ate some of your bacon with my fingers.

we will walk home in the breeze and i'll be wearing a white shirt. we'll retire to the bedroom and i will find out if your thighs look like how i think they will look like when i think about them. your breasts too but it's probably better if we don't go there in this letter. this is a romantic letter.

and i assure you, we will be happy in our love.

except for the fact that this letter will never find it's way to you. you will never know my name. i will tear the letter up into a million pieces. i might burn it and toast marshmallows in the flames. sad marshmallows. but they will still taste pretty good.  

to you, my love. for you and about you. this is my letter.

love,

this is the part where i dipped my finger in chocolate and pressed it to the page. it looked a bit like blood but if you smell it you can tell it is chocolate.

a poem about kittens

my mother is an animal. a slug. a bug. a stupid cat. she doesn't believe in simple things like truth. like things that happened. she says things like "your father did not molest you. he is not an animal."

my father is an animal. a gorilla. a pig. something fat. he doesn't believe in simple things either. like not molesting little girls. like not molesting me. he says things like "you are a slut. you are a rotten dirty slut."

my mother says "they can put a man on the moon."

my father says "you are a whore. a slutty dirty whore."

my mother says "you don't think they can implant false memories in a girl's brains?"

and i say to my mother "i am telling you."

and i say to my father "you molested me."

i am confronting them. i am telling them. but they do not believe in simple things.

my father plays the bassoon. that's what he does. that's his job.

my mother gets raped by my father. that's her job.

"you were in my room" i say to him.

and to her i say "he is not a man on the moon. he put himself on me."

"you were a slut" my father says.

"he was a man" says my mother.

"he was never a man" i say to my mother.

"you are a rapist" i say to my father. "a gorilla who rapes slugs and bugs and stupid cats. a pig. you are something fat that rapes little girls and you raped me. in my bed you raped me. i didn't want you to rape me but you did. you are a pig and you raped me."

"they have done things to your thoughts" says my mother, "you don't know what is true."

"he did things to my body" i say to my mother.

"you stuffed your fat penis into places inside of me" i say to my father. "you shoved it deep into my anus."

"you were a whore." says my father. "those skimpy slut pants" he says.

"those were my pajamas" i say to my father. "i was eleven years old."

"a child doesn't understand" says my mother. "your father, he fixes things."

"you do not understand" i say to my mother.

"you break things" i say to my father.

"and what about the sheets?" i say to my mother. "the sheets that were soaked in blood."

"girls bleed" says my mother. "and they are embarrassed. they make up stories to hide their shame."

"i am not embarrassed" i tell my mother.

"i am not ashamed" i tell my father.

"i am just telling you" i tell my mother.

"i know what you did" i tell my father.

"you are an animal."

Oh Shit

This story is now featured in Up. Check it out.

Her lips are chapped and her nose is broken. Her eyes are crossed and her head is big. Her hair is red. Her clothes are not what I would wear if I was a girl and I could sing, if I was up, if I was there, if I had a fucked up face and fucked up hair. But now I know her voice. It can’t be seen, it’s the ghost of a grizzly bear. 18 feet of man-eating terror, it ate a human being. It floats across the room. Through the smoke and around the people. Underneath. Over the top. It can’t be stopped. It’s growling. It’s rumbling. It’s a stuntman tumbling down my ear canal. It’s in my brain. Cloudy and woolly. I’m the little boy who lives down the lane. It’s the sun and the sky and I’m some guy on the ground or in a field with nothing to do but bask. It’s a flask full of whiskey. I don’t drink but I’m at the liquor store and I want some more. I’ve got some cans to recycle. Awake but drunk I’m naked in bed and still it’s in my head. It’s the semen in my balls (I’m aiming for the walls) and I’ve never been this happy. Sleep has come and gone and come and gone and come and gone and now my eyes are open. Oh shit, she’s ugly.

the greenhouse effect

what is the greenhouse effect? he can't remember. he did a presentation on it in school. stood up in front of the whole class. he was nervous. he clutched the table in front of him for support but his hands shook so hard the table started vibrating. the other kids laughed. but they were all impressed with his poster board.

now he's sitting with a woman at a fancy restaurant and they're sharing a crème brulée. it's not big enough to share. she's a scientist and he likes the way she eats. she sucks the crème brulée off the spoon and then mashes it against the top of her mouth with her tongue. she lets it slide down the back of her throat and then she talks.

"the greenhouse effect," she says. "something, something, something."

he can't remember what it is. he isn't stupid. he knows things. he can figure things out. but now she's stopped talking and she wants him to say something. she wants him to engage in the conversation. she wants to know his opinion on the greenhouse effect and how it something, something, something. the crème brulée is finished. there's nothing left to do but talk.

it's awkward. he might change the subject. or lie or excuse himself for a toilet break.

then he tells her. "i don't remember what the greenhouse effect is." and "i don't know anything about something, something, something."

she laughs. she likes his honesty. she tells him that she doesn't shave her legs.

"i don't like christmas," he admits.

then she blurts out "i've had an abortion."

they laugh together. they touch each other. they kiss at the end of the night.

it's the best date he's ever been on. her too.

later, they see movies. they do sexual things to each other. they get married. they buy a house that isn't green. it's a regular coloured house. they are happy.

robot people hands

i'm a robot now. she doesn't know on account of i haven't seen her since the whole thing "went down." i want to call her up and say "oh hey there butter clit, i'm a robot now. i have a blue/white polymer face and animatronic robot people hands. my brain is a giant computer." and she'll say something like "hey, who is this" because i have a modulated robot voice now and she won't recognize it and i'll say "it's me roberto" and then she'll be all "well then how come you sound like a robot?" and i'll say "because i'm a robot now."

then she probably won't believe me so i'll say "hey i can prove it, why don't we meet down at the baja club and we can grab a coffee or something and i will peel back the casing on my wrist and show you my wires."

and she'll be all "but robots can't drink coffee on account of they are robots not human people people with throats and digestive systems."

and i'll say "i know i won't have any coffee, you can have a coffee and i will do really hard calculations and tell you the answers because robots are really good at maths."

then she'll be all "okay, i guess so but you should know that i have a boyfriend now and i really meant all those things i said."

and i'll be all "no worries because they stripped away my emotions and replaced them with the entire contents of the internet movie database."

and she'll be all "oh that's pretty awesome and actually hey can you tell me what was the name of that movie where rob lowe is having an affair with his roommate's mum and his roommate is andrew mccarthy" and i'll immediately respond with actually it was the other way around, andrew mccarthy was having an affair with rob lowe's mum and the movie was called class" and she'll be all "oh, okay, thanks."

and then when we meet up at the baja club she will take me back because i am still the same person but i am a robot now.

Oh, Be A Fine Girl -- Kiss Me!

annie jump cannon is a computer. people do not press her buttons or play games on her. she is a woman. a woman who computes. in fact, annie jump cannon is an expert in identifying and classifying stars. she is fast. she is accurate. she spends many hours at the harvard college observatory where she classifies variable stars for the henry draper catalogue project.

annie jump cannon has invented a new scheme for the spectral classification of stars. it is very user friendly. it has been adopted as the standard by the international astronomical union. she is proud of her scheme. she wants to get drunk and celebrate with her colleagues. but nobody wants to buy her a beer. annie jump cannon is a computer.

cecilia payne, on the other hand, is not a computer. she lays around in her apartment gossiping with her friends. she talks about boys and she fucks them. cecilia payne is alive. she is a thinker. she rallies against the scientists who have erroneously concluded that the sun is made of iron. she authors what one day will be described as "undoubtedly the most brilliant Ph.D. thesis ever written in astronomy." cecilia payne joins a vietnamese street gang. she buys a jet ski. she wears a t-shirt with a picture of mao tse-tung on the front. she watches high school musical 17 times. and all of cecilia payne's friends want to buy her a beer. 

shadow company

i am a schizophrenic. i hear voices in my head. the voices are strange. they tell me to do things.

the doctor asks me about the voices.

one of the voices is american i say. his name is peter mcallister. he is the former commander of a vietnam war era special operations troop, known as shadow company.

what does peter mcallister tell you to do? asks the doctor.

he wants me to kidnap a girl named rianne. she is the daughter of a policeman. it has something to do with a heroin-smuggling operation.

another one of the voices is named arjen rudd, he is the minister of affairs for the south african consulate. he wants me to hide a case of krugerrands. he wants me to fly an aérospatiale 350B astar helicopter. he wants me to kill a police officer. he tells me to go down to the docks. there is drug money there. it needs to be protected.

another voice is a rogue cop named jack edward travis. he wants me to distribute cop killer bullets to the bad guys. he wants me to sell guns.

the final(?) voice is a high-ranking triad negotiator named wah sing ku. he wants me to set fire to a house full of people, including two pregnant women. 

and that's it i tell the doctor.

he doesn't believe me. i'm too old for this shit, he says.

fyoo-cha

she has a phd in history. wars and genocide. empire building. exploration and exploitation of previously inhabited land. he likes the future, outer space, and holding her hand.

"there's nothing beyond today" she says.

"i disagree," he counters. "for today we are born."

"and why do you always wear shorts?" she says. "you're 38 years old."

"tomorrow i will wear some slacks, for you, fancy ones with pin stripes and a closely fitted shirt. i will tussle my hair and sling a messenger bag across my shoulder. it will rest on my hip and draw attention down to my shoes. they will be made in denmark and there will be something unique about them. we will drink cappuccinos and sit at the tables outside. i will type something on my laptop and your friends will whisper and you will be proud. i will kiss your neck and whisper into your ear. i will tell you about paris and how we are going to go there in the summertime. i have bought the tickets and we'll leave the kids at your mother's. i won't talk about robots. not even once. you will tell me about something you read in the paper and i will tell you about the time i was in germany. a new story, one that you have never heard before. a deeply personal story that i never intended to share. it was when the wall was coming down and you will be captivated. hours later we will realize that we never left the coffee shop. we both missed work and we just keep on talking. i will seduce you and we will make out on the train and back in the apartment we will make love in the middle of the afternoon. this is all going to happen tomorrow."

"can't you at least wear some jeans once in a while?" she says. "it's embarrassing."

she is changing the lyrics to beatles songs

she says things to me. mean things. and awful things. i feel like a boiling hot dog. floating to the top, then splitting up the guts. when i see her coming i scurry away. i'm a cockroach. embarrassed at how disgusting i am. i'm a disgusting pig. a cockroach pig. a hotdog cockroach pig.

then she says more things to me. more and more things. putting me down. i feel like a chinese acrobat in dorchester and i don't even know where dorchester is or if a chinese acrobat would feel uncomfortable there. a chinese hotdog cockroach pig acrobat in dorchester.

then suddenly i realize. she is just changing the lyrics to beatles songs.

"you're a real piece of shit" (nowhere man).

"all you need is to stop being so fat and disgusting" (all you need is love)

"i'm going to drive my car over your ugly face" (drive my car)

"fuck off, go away" (hello, goodbye)

"you are a bucktoothed piece of shit" (i am the walrus)

"i want to dip your face into a bucket of sulfuric acid" (i want to hold your hand)

"let me beat you to death" (let it be)

"you are a pea-brained fuckface" (paperback writer)

"you need to figure your shit out" (we can work it out)

"i wish you would die you stupid creep" (live and let die)

oh, that last one is wings i think. either way, i'm onto her. i get it now. those aren't even her words. she's too dumb to even think of her own words. she's just changing the lyrics to beatles songs.

metaphor is a metaphor for climate change

this story does not contain any metaphors. in fact, metaphors do not exist at all. this story is literally not even a story. it is the world. a man is in the world. he has a perfectly symmetrical face. he has good posture. the man is stone phillips. he is not jim stossel. gimme a break, jim stossel does not even exist. jim stossel is a metaphor for stone phillips. the man in the world who is stone phillips is doing an in-depth news story about climate change, which by the way is a metaphor for metaphors. it does not exist.

stone phillips is not actually a journalist. he works with journalists. the journalists do not have symmetrical faces. they do not have suitable hair. the journalists gather the details. they write words and line them up in formation. stone phillips reads the words and people hear the words. people believe the words because stone phillips has a symmetrical face.

the words are about climate change. this year it was really hot somewhere. and it was colder than usual. there was a storm. people are concerned. is stone phillips getting old? is he becoming more distinguished or is he ugly now. the people think stone phillips is ugly now. they do not believe the words that stone phillips tells them via their televisions. televisions are a metaphor for the internet. the internet does not exist.

people eat their dinner. they go to work. they talk about stone phillips. he's getting old they say. therefore climate change does not exist. they do not realize that not existing is a metaphor for existing. stone phillips does not have a symmetrical face. his face is a metaphor for jim stossel's moustache.

i kill spiders for you

a lot of things are happening. it's chaos. it's a dream. there are waves. it's serene. you love me. but you don't like anything i do. the poetry. i kill spiders for you (i'm scared of spiders, too). the bees in my balls are buzzing. making semen in their hive. they're glad to be alive. they are prepared to die. for you. they won't get the chance, for there's no time to dance. no pants, no slacks. no chance to relax. you bought me a shirt. no chemistry. we have history. psychology and physics. what is this? we are heavy. we are moving. after the things that are happening have run their course. we will remain. together. mass times acceleration = force. 

the germans have robots

i don't feel like doing anything. my throat is sore. i'm upside down on the couch. i'm eating icecream.

but the germans have robots.

i need to stand up. i need to walk over there. i need to alert the taskforce.

the germans have robots.

i need to solve the equation. i must return to the modeling room. i've tried to solve the equation. it is a difficult equation to solve. but before now i did not know.

the germans have robots.

it's too much pressure. i'm watching tv. i want to stay in tonight. i want to watch tv. i want to enjoy my icecream.

but the germans have robots.

the reconnaissance team has completed their mission. they got inside. they took pictures. they were undetected. and now we know for an absolute fact.

the germans have robots.

i'm wearing my loungederwear. i'm settled in for the evening. i don't feel well. i want to call in sick.

but the germans have robots.

how dare they. those stupid people. can't follow a simple michael douglas movie but somehow, all of a sudden.

the germans have robots.

i cannot stand them. i will not stand for them. i will stay right here on the couch and eat my icecream and watch my tv. i just don't feel like doing anything.

let the germans have their robots.

four girls

four girls are in the park. young girls. they scream. and giggle. it's fun. then three of the girls run away from the other one. i am the other girl. it isn't fun anymore. the three girls who run away are shouting things. mean things. they are being mean to me and i am going to cry. i'm crying. the three girls are laughing and still shouting. the things they are saying are not true. i don't understand what's happening. i don't like it. i am feeling very terrible. i'm chasing them now. they are running away from me and i am chasing them. i don't want them to leave me behind. but i don't want to catch them either. what if i catch them? why are they doing this?

now i am climbing a tree. i'm going to climb to the top of the tree. they will look at me and i will fall out of the tree. i will land on my head. if i die they will feel very terrible for being mean to me. if i don't die i will tell my dad that they pushed me. it will be a lie. they will get into trouble for pushing me out of the tree. they shouldn't have been mean to me.

i am at the top of the tree. i can see the three girls. now two of them are running away from the other one. they are shouting at her and saying mean things. the same kind of mean things they said about me. the other girl  is coming over to my tree. she is climbing it. she is crying. we sit on a branch together and we don't say anything. i won't fall out of the tree. i will sit here with the other girl. i will say something to her. we will be friends.

there are still four girls in the park. but they are not running anymore. they are not screaming. they are not giggling. two of them are in a tree. the other two wander aimlessly across the grass.

mr. belding got fat

i guess it was the 20th anniversary of saved by the bell or something and i was reading an article in a magazine and probably half of the article was all about how mr. belding got fat. i laughed because i suppose getting fat is funny on a certain level but then i thought about how it's also kind of mean to ridicule somebody for getting fat.

it bothered me.

so i mentioned it to cleo because she used to watch saved by the bell and also she's pretty fat. she said "eh, the writer is just a cunt and cunts always be cunting."

"that's true. cunts do always be cunting," i agreed. "but i'm not a cunt and i laughed when i read it."

she laughed and said that actually i am a cunt. "maybe a douchebag," i said to cleo, "but i am not a cunt."

"a douchebag deluxe," she countered, "with cuntish tendencies."

"bullshit," i said. "whatever. at least i'm not fat."

the article also implied that mario lopez is as awesome as he seems.

he climbs through windows

the boy has obsessive compulsive disorder. the obsessive compulsive disorder compels the boy to climb through open windows. the boy firmly believes that if he does not climb through open windows then tv shows that he likes will be prematurely canceled. tv is important to the boy. he tries not to leave the house too much because there are a lot of open windows out there.

his doctors and his parents and his friends tell the boy that the fates of his favourite tv shows do not depend upon him climbing through open windows. the last time the boy did not climb through an open window, however, terminator: the sarah connor chronicles was canceled. the time before that journeyman came to an end. the boy is convinced.

the compulsion to climb through open windows is not a safe manifestation of the disorder to have. it comes with many side effects:

1. falling out of windows that are hard to climb into
2. breaking bones after falling out of windows that are hard to climb into
   
3. stumbling into awkward situations such as 15 year old girls sitting on the toilet with blood stained underpants around their ankles
4. being arrested
5. being late for appointments
   

it can be exciting at times. the boy enjoys discovering and exploring new places. recently he has begun bringing a camera and has developed an affinity for photographing people with surprised looks on their faces.

overall it is not a positive situation, however. he lacks control. he does not enjoy putting people in the tv industry out of work. he would like to overcome his obsessive compulsive disorder. he tells himself that he will not climb in any more open windows. he tells himself that his favourite tv shows will remain on the air.

but then a man parks his car across the street. the man leaves the driver's side window open. it is a hot day. the boy sees the car. he tries to turn away. but the boy cannot resist the allure of the open window. he walks across the street. he will take a look at the window, the boy tells himself, and then move along. but the attraction of the window is too strong. the boy finds himself sitting in the front seat of the car. the man who owns the car shouts something, then comes running. he has a mobile phone in his hands and he is dialing and shouting. the boy grabs his camera and snaps a picture of the man. the man is close now. he punches the boy in the face and drags him out of the window.

the boy lies on the footpath, bleeding. he can see an open window up high, on the second story of a house. there is a tree. but the man still stands above him, with his foot on the boy's chest. the boy wants to break the man's ankle and make a run for the tree. the boy hates himelf for wanting to hurt the man. he hates himself for being so weak. the boy cries. the man lets him go. but the obsessive compulsive disorder hangs on. its grip tightens. and the boy is already at the tree.

richie benaud is still alive

 
the story is about richie benaud. or really about how richie benaud is still alive. i worry, though, that richie benaud will die before the story is finished. not for his sake, because he has surely led a full and good life. but for the story's sake. a story about richie benaud being still alive hinges on the fact that richie benaud is actually still alive. his death would certainly kill the story.

the story describes richie benaud's face. how it has changed over the years. sunken in. how his eyes have evolved from tadpoles to frogs. eyes can be frogs, contends the story, and a recent photograph of richie benaud confirms the story's assertion. the photograph accompanies the story. what the photograph does not illustrate is how richie benaud's voice has remained steady. the same. perhaps because, as a young man, he already sounded old.

richie benaud is still alive, in the story, and hopefully in the world (for the sake of the story) as friends gather to watch the cricket. they reminisce about their childhood. they do impressions of richie benaud, commentating each other's actions. beer from the fridge, etc. They remember hot days, taking classic catches with a tennis ball as they leap into the swimming pool. They remember ducking their heads inside to check the score. They remember tv ads for kit kats and solar powered hot water systems. They remember richie benaud being alive, and they like that he still is. the way he holds the microphone, his football shaped head, the inflections that make his voice his. richie benaud is just a man. but the fact that he is still alive is comforting to them. i hope he doesn't die.

cabbage moth

a single ponytail at the back of her head. a gold chain with her name, still sweating even though she took a shower after the game. you're a cabbage moth, i said. not a butterfly and she asked me why. she didn't cry but i could tell she'd rather be a butterfly. your face is your face, it's beautiful, i replied. and you know the square root of pi. butterflies are plastic and stupid and they're all sluts who probably fucked that guy she works with that one time in orlando. she turned her back and grabbed her bag and i told her that mandy moore got married to bryan adams. it was ryan adams she said, and i fucked your brother. i walked behind her in silence, watching the ponytail jump. she high fived a friend and then turned back around again and i asked if she really fucked my brother because no way, i mean he'd probably do that shit, but. she pushed me in my body, playfully, and said no and i think she called me a stink bug but i fell backwards over a bench and i landed on my wrist. she asked me if i was alright and i said no i think i broke my wrist and she said she's not any kind of disgusting bug. i said i was sorry and that i really did think that i broke my wrist but actually i didn't because at the hospital they took an x-ray and said it was okay and she laughed pretty hard right in my face. just like a cabbage moth. that night we watched condorman on TV and then did it on the couch.

crispin (lover)

"i could do this all day" i said, basking in her glory.

"do what?" she said, "we're not doing anything."

"be with you."

"oh" she said, "but i've got class."

two guys

to the two guys with a bulldog and too much cologne, why are you so happy; why am i alone? walking and touching and talking on the phone. high fiving, thriving. more than just surviving; why am i alone? smiling, eating, sucking the marrow from the bone; i will die alone.

hail bus

he drives along the bus route and picks people up. he takes them where they want to go and he doesn't rape them. he offers them chocolate. it is cheap chocolate but most people enjoy it all the same. he engages the riders in conversation. sometimes they don't want to talk so he switches the radio on. he gestures at the radio and offers to switch the station. he lends people umbrellas when it is raining. i sit at the bus stop and watch other people get into his car. they tell me how nice he is. they encourage me to accept the ride. i wait for the bus.

she is

she is (something)
without me

she is not (anything)
with me

i am selfish. also she wears tube socks and short shorts even when she is not rollerskating. i'm not giving that shit up.

her dad

she shows me a polaroid photograph from when she was a girl. it's cracked and her dad is in it. she does not look happy. her mum is in the background. unintentionally a part of it. holding a spoon and looking off to the side. why did you show me this, i ask. there's something i need to tell you, she says.

a metaphor for breastfeeding/breastfeeding as a metaphor

he dates anorexic girls. not because they're skinny, but because they don't get their periods anymore. they don't bleed on his penis. they don't taste like rusty coat hangers. these girls, the ones who do not get their periods anymore, are sometimes cunts. not bleeding cunts, just cunts. being hungry all the time makes them mean. and some of them pass out at inconvenient times. "in the middle of it" or at the movies. people worry about these anorexic girls. he tells the people that it is okay. the girls are just sleeping. he tunes out when they are being very cunty or he calls them fat and they go away. he likes the peach fuzz that covers their bodies and their faces. he smooths it down.

his friend does not date anorexic girls. he likes tall girls or short girls. his opening line is "do you want to give me a haircut?" a lot of girls do want to give him a haircut. he is nice to the girls who give him a haircut.

these two boys, they have a friend who is a girl. she is the perfect girl. they don't want to fuck her. they like her. the three of them are friends. the girl, she likes boys who play music. she likes boys who play the violin. she wears a t-shirt that says "i like the way you fiddle." at the university she studies the mathemathical method known as Free Induction Decay Deconvolution for Lineshape Enhancement in nmr data processing because she likes the acronym.

something happens and the group go their separate ways. down the line somewhere they all meet in a coffee shop and catchup.

the boy who dated anorexic girls is fat now. he is married to a nurse and he is happy. he has kids. one of his kids is a girl and he worries about her.

the boy who had hair, the boy who offered his hair to the girls, that boy is a lawyer now. he is divorced but his ex-wife still cuts his hair. he is dating again. he still likes short girls or tall girls. he bought a kindle.

the girl, the perfect girl, she taught herself how to play guitar. she has a job but the two boys don't really understand it. it has something to do with mathematics and she likes it. she is married to a guy with a moustache. he does not play the violin and the three of them laugh about it.

she liked something

she liked something and he wondered how she could like it. he didn't like it. he didn't like that she liked it. how could she like it? it bothered him. he didn't like being bothered. he didn't like being bothered by her. he asked her about it. she said that she likes to like things and that was it. she was flippant about it. he didn't like that she was flippant about it. he told her that he didn't like that she was flippant about it. she told him to fuck off. she doesn't like him any more. he doesn't like that she doesn't like him any more. he tried to tell her that he doesn't like it that she doesn't like him any more but she would not answer his calls.

she likes french guys

they were talking in bed and he said something about tennis skirts and she said she always wanted to do it with a french guy. the next time they made love he shouted out "i'm french, i'm french" when he came. she thought it was funny but it did not turn her on.

Parlez-vous français? (Do you play guitar?)

there were two french girls and they were sisters and they were ugly all over the outside of their bodies. sideways faces, upside down knees, inverted nipples. busted nose. hammer toes. but inside in their brains and in their hearts and in their whole la façon d'est they were wicked fucking sexy.


i didn't know them. i saw a poster on campus and it said "parlez-vous français?" and it was stapled half on top of another poster but i didn't realize it was two separate posters and the other poster had a picture of a guy playing guitar and i always wanted to play guitar and i was with melvin so i said hey melvin what does "parlez-vous français?" mean and he said "do you play guitar?" and i said no. not yet.


the poster had a meeting room and a time on it so i figured what the hell and i bought a guitar off some kid in my dorm and i showed up at the time and the place and there they were. etienne and philippine. they were very ugly. a bunch of other folkers were there too. mingling around and eating cheese and speaking french and i didn't speak french and so obviously i was in the wrong place. but then etienne pointed at me and said something in french and everybody stopped what they were doing and made some kind of weird "yay" sound and then they all started clapping like i was somebody who was about to do something that they were expecting to enjoy.


so i walked up to the front of the room and stood there with my guitar around my neck and i sang enter sandman by metallica. it sounded kind of weird because i didn't play the guitar at all but they thought it was great. afterwards phillipine came up to me and i remember thinking how ugly she was and she said oh i thought you were going to play some french songs and i said well i only know frère jacques and she said oh ok and gave me twenty bucks. then another guy came in with a guitar and i ran away.


next time i saw etienne and philippine they were playing ultimate frisbee on the quad and i was drinking a coke and etienne stopped me and asked if she could have some and i usually don't like to share too much and especially don't like it when the person looks like they will probably leave their drippy spit all over everything and she definitely looked like that type on account of how ugly and drooly her mouth was. but there's something about etienne, no matter how ugly she is all over the outside of her body, she's the type of girl that you want to do things for. and to. oh god that probably sounds disgusting because she's so ugly but i'm telling you, i've never wanted to crawl all up inside a girl's vagina as badly as i wanted to crawl all up inside etienne's vagina. except maybe philippine's.


i never did though. neither/nor. but somehow i wound up in their circle of friends. they started teaching me french and in the summer a group of us went to paris for study abroad. it was fucking insensé in the membrensé. they took me to parties and i met a girl and we did it in the bathroom of the musée du louvre okay it wasn't the louvre and we didn't actually do it but we kissed in a museum and it was nice. and the girl, her name is natalie, she was a singer but not just a singer because she had a record deal and she taught me how to play guitar and she wrote a song about me and i married her.


then just this past week, natalie and i were back in paris because we live in the states but we spend a month in paris every year in the summer time, and we were eating crepes and then we saw etienne and philippine strolling right down the street in front of us. just as ugly as ever. we said hello and they remembered us and we all got drunk and they came up to our room and i sang enter sandman for them and this time i played the guitar parts, too. it was the best night of my life.

and i liked it

i found a cigarette and i smoked it. i kinda liked it. i'm glad i tried it. so i bought a pack and i smoked it. i didn't hide it. until i met a girl who would not abide it. she said if i smoked i couldn't ride it. so i said i quit then i smoked (a little bit) and when she asked i denied it. she opened up my mouth and smelled inside it. and that's a bit weird right? i mean she put her nose all up inside my mouth hole and i wanted real bad to just bight down on her nose but then i was all what if i bight her nose off, the blood would probably get all over my t-shirt and how would we explain it all in the emergency room. too much drama so i just said orble whorble like i was choking and then finally she took her snot garage out of my mouth and said something like smells like smoke down there. yeah well that's because i'm too legit to quit although i didn't actually say that i think i just said something like yeah, sorry and then she said she was serious because her father died of lung cancer or actually it was her uncle i guess but either way she said she hated cigarettes and so i said okay i really will quit. and i did but then things happened and by things i mean she did it with her tutor at the university and i was all oh come on i quit cigarettes for you and she was all yeah well you should have quit anyway and now it's been 19 years that i haven't had a cigarette and i didn't die of lung cancer and now actually i think people who smoke are kind of lame. like that guy outside the restaurant and he was just smoking right there and i said douchebag but to my friend not right to his face but he heard it because i did say it kind of loudly and then he punched me right in the guts. that's fair enough i guess. he probably likes it.

next wednesday

sometimes you have to write a story that is good or that isn't good just to get an idea out of your head. to stop it from infesting your brain. like the idea about a boy and a girl. the boy says i'm going to fuck you into next wednesday and the girl is all do you mean tomorrow or the following wednesday and the boy says well, tomorrow i guess because we're going to visit my mum on saturday and i probably shouldn't be fucking you all up in her house. and the girl rolls her eyes and the boy says what, come on, she's okay with you now, she likes you, i just think it would be disrespectful and the girl says yeah i'm calling bullshit on that because your mum hates me, i heard her telling your sister that i'm a scabby girl and i don't even know what a scabby girl is but i don't like the sound of it.

a scabby girl is a girl who has no class says the boy. just because i hold my fork in the wrong hand or whatever doesn't mean i have no class the girl says and plus your mum doesn't think i'm nice enough to you but i am. you should tell her how nice i am. like sometimes when we fuck i'm not that into it but i keep it going so that you can still have a good time and feel like you are man enough to satisfy me. you should tell her that.

what? says the boy. that's crap because you do like it otherwise why would you scream and that neighbour guy told me he can hear you sometimes when he's trying to watch the gossip show on tv. i know i do like it the girl says. it's just that, sometimes ... sometimes i wish your mother wouldn't be such a cunt all the time.

look, says the boy, that's my mum and i kind of wish you wouldn't call her a cunt because i hate being in the middle of it all. you should stand up for me sometimes says the girl. you should just talk to her yourself says the boy. she's really okay when you get to know her, when you figure out how she operates.

whatever says the girl, are you still going to fuck me into tomorrow? maybe just into about 11pm says the boy. i want to hit the gym in the morning.

jesus and the science girls

mary wanted jesus to study philosophy at the university but he wasn't hearing any of it. "come on mom, shit," he would say, "ain't no cute girls in philosophy." what he really meant was "ain't no science girls in philosophy" because it was the science girls who caught his eye. the lab coats, the glasses, the way they parted their hair down the middle. the science girls gave jesus a giant boner.

so jesus signed up for some chemistry and biology classes. he wore his "do you know jesus" t-shirt and told people he was pre-med. the science girls weren't that into jesus but he was persistent. he cured their diseases and did fancy tricks for them. he turned ethanol into wine and got them drunk. he made his disciples chant the periodic table while they rubbed the science girls' feet. eventually jesus grew on the science girls. they liked having him around. he was a good time guy. one of the science girls kissed jesus. another one let him cup her breast. jesus felt like he was making progress.

the next semester jesus signed up for an anatomy class. the class was loaded with science girls. his lab partner was a science girl. he wanted to do things with his lab partner. sexual things. he wanted to go all the way. but on the first day of class the teacher announced that they would be examining actual human dead bodies. students would be required to stick their fingers inside actual human dead bodies. the teacher said anybody who was not comfortable with that fact could withdraw from the class without penalty. jesus was not comfortable with that fact. but when another boy stood up and left the class all the science girls giggled in condemnation. jesus did not want to be condemned by the science girls.

so jesus decided to tough it out. he would close his eyes and pretend the bodies were sandwiches. but then the teacher wheeled the first actual human dead body into the classroom and the air quickly filled with the stench of formaldehyde. jesus vomited. the vomit splashed off a beaker on the table top and sprayed his lab partner's coat. he started to apologize but as soon as he opened his mouth he vomited again. this time the vomit landed on his lab partner's suede boots. suede boots are hard to clean.

word quickly spread and jesus became an outcast. some of the science girls pitied him. some of them were revolted by him. others thought he was a dick head.

jesus was embarrassed. he dropped out of the university and went to work for his dad. mary brought him a brochure for the local community college. "i don't need no stinking degree," he told her, "school is bunk."

then a few years later while he was out and about doing god's work, jesus came across his old anatomy lab partner. they struck up a conversation and chuckled about the suede shoes. the science girl apologized for treating jesus poorly. jesus apologized for vomiting on her expensive shoes. all was forgiven. but jesus knew he was never going to go all the way with the science girl. the moment had passed. she had a boyfriend now and he had a big speech to prepare. so jesus and the science girl went their separate ways, never knowing what might have been.

my hair is the greatest american hero

my hair is big and awesome and better than anything you've ever done with your life. i don't even know if it looks more awesome when i wake up in the morning or even more awesome after i have a shower and "do it." people literally, figuratively, and virtually jump up in the air and say wow when they walk past me (because they think my hair is really awesome). they give me high fives and say things like hey can you believe how awesome your hair is and i say yeah, i know, it's really awesome and then they say yeah, it is. i'm going to go and look at it right now.

today

if today was a girl i'd buy her lunch and take a bight, kiss her lips and hug her tight, hold her hand and write a song, forget the words and sing it wrong. if today was a girl she'd blow my mind and get undressed. she'd guide my hand right to her breast. then she'd stop and say let's save the rest. tomorrow is another day.

18

you're 18 and why are you so confident? in your voice and in your eyes i am 100 years older than you and still trying to fuck you for knowing what to do and who you are so fucking together when it took me all of my life and i'm not dead so you do the tony danza on that one. on a perfect day when the wind is blowing me and my hair is looking just how i like it and jonathan taylor thomas is right there ordering the same thing i just ordered and did he do it because i did or he likes it that way anyway it's one of those days which never happen to me but it's just a thursday for you and on friday you go to buy those pants and they're on sale for eight dollars and i have a headache. i didn't mean to tell you fuck you just now but see that's what i'm talking about because you walk around wearing that dress and smiling at people and they feel happy and i want to stab them in the face but not to kill them just to i don't even know because i'm watching tv and you're on there right now singing a duet with that guy and you look at him kind of sexy sideways and at the end he goes to give you a high five and instead you hug him. and you're 18 and you tell people things and they laugh at my moustache and i tell people things and they nod and then tell me the things you told them and i had a dream the other day that i was in a karate fight and i was wearing karate pajamas and i was winning but then the other guy said that isn't a real karate outfit those are pajamas and the crowd laughed and the guy kicked me in the head and i felt sad. you probably dream about motorbikes or outer space and i like that you exist i just don't know how and sometimes i wonder if people can smell my feet.

same sex robot radio show

we listen to the same sex robot radio show. we aren't same sex robots though. they play music that you can listen to and they have a chat session where people can call in and say things. robots i mean. last night a robot called in and said that his life partner robot had the same voice modulation chip as him so when people or robots call their house it is difficult to tell which same sex robot they are talking to. plus the one robot's name is velocity 2000 and the other robot's name is voltron 2000 so sometimes they get letters for mr. v 2000. so the one robot answered the phone one day and pretended to be the other robot and the robot on the phone was all "what are you wearing" and the robot pretender was all "i'm wearing robot trousers" and the robot on the phone said "ooh take off your robot trousers again like you did last time" and "i'm oscillating my refractor node" and then the one robot knew that his same sex robot life partner was so busted because he must have this kind of robot phone sex all the time. stupid robots.

we laugh at them. every night we listen to their stupid robot problems and we say things like stupid robots or something else. tonight we're going to call in and pretend to be same sex robots. we're going to say something about a stupid robot problem and then right at the end we'll shout out "stupid robots" and hang up. that's why humans are smarter than robots.

rent-a-bear

you can rent bears now. for birthday parties or to be in movies, etc. they come with a "handler" who tells the bears what to do. the bears are handcuffed and footcuffed until you are ready for them to do something. then the handler uncuffs them and shoves chunks of meat into their bear faces. then he yells commands like "hoi" and "butt butt butt" and the bears do whatever it is "hoi" or "butt butt butt" means.

i rented a bear. it cost $950 for the day plus i gave him a $50 tip so really it was an even thousand.

i wasn't having a birthday party i just always wanted to kick back with a bear and listen to some coltrane. it was just how i imagined it. i sat next to the bear and he didn't judge me for listening to a cassette tape instead of an LP or a CD or an MP3 he just chilled out and appreciated the music and he looked at me while i sang  "a love supreme, a love supreme, a love supreme."

after that we watched some re-runs of the fall guy and i told the handler that i wanted the bear to laugh like a "oh, come on, that's ridiculous" kind of laugh but the handler said bears can't laugh but he could wave his hand at the tv. so i told him whenever colt says something he should wave his hand at the tv and he did and it was pretty great. he'd wave and i'd laugh.

i asked the handler if the bear had ever been on tv and he said no but sandy duncan once rented him out because her house backed up onto the woods and the whole neighborhood was frightened because a wild bear had been eating dogs and cats from people's backyards so she wanted to rent a bear and pretend to kill it to make her kids feel better. it all went a bit haywire because the other bear showed up when the rent-a-bear was there and they growled at each other and then the other bear just ran away and it turned out sandy duncan's gun was loaded with real bullets and he thinks she was actually going to really kill his bear.

i told the handler that i liked the tv show bj and the bear and then i felt instantly embarrassed because that is a monkey and not a bear but the handler didn't say anything. he might be too young to know what bj and the bear is. or any which way but loose.

the bear didn't have a name. well, his name was "the bear" i guess. at the end of the day the handler put the bear back into his cage and drove him back to the forest or wherever it is that bears live when they are not being rented out.

the aliens have big penises

they descended from the skies in heart shaped metal-machines. future metal that was fleshy and rounded and comfortable. they emerged. they were aliens.

the women were athletic and small-breasted. they were good conversationalists. they were attractive. we wanted to get to know them.

the men were handsome and witty and they wore clothes that we thought would look good on us. we wanted to get to know them, too.

they were lovely.

they introduced us to music. we called it space music and it was very enjoyable. there were instruments that we didn't know about. the tunes were catchy and the lyrics were sophisticated.

they told us stories of exploration and adventure and travel. exciting stories.

they enjoyed meeting new species. they were not missionaries and they didn't want to murder us and steal our natural resources. they were friendly aliens.

they stayed.

they listened to us and helped us solve social problems and sudoku puzzles.

they danced with us.

it was really a wonderful time.

until the jealousy.

the envy.

we knew that it was wrong. but the men aliens had big penises. they liked to insert their big penises into our women. and our women liked to hold the big penises and look at them and enjoy them.

we felt inferior. our self-esteem was lost. we had normal sized penises but suddenly they felt very, very small.

we projected our self-hatred onto the men aliens. we tried to hurt them with words and fists.

the men aliens talked to the women aliens and they decided to leave us. to go onward. to seek out other experiences. they climbed into their machines and they were comfortable. they smiled and they waved and they drifted away.

our women are still angry. our self-esteem remains low.

i don't know what you look like

i think about you a lot when i masturbate. i know, i don't actually know what you look like. i think you probably look like tracy gold. or tracy chapman. are you black? i'm black. i look like dustin hoffman. in my wank dreams your face keeps morphing into all your other faces like in that godley and creme video. for some reason i also picture you singing "do they know it's christmas" a lot. can you sing? i can't hold a tune myself but i'm pretty good on the synthesizer. i can play it like a piano or like a drum. i'm not going to tell you for sure but i might be a bit older than what i said last time. i'll keep you guessing. maybe i am or maybe i'm not. i don't think you're older than what you said. you might be fat. i hope i never meet you.

big tits

he was wearing a superman t-shirt and he said he would buy one but only because she had big tits. she didn't think that was very super but she needed the commission because her boyfriend was a footballer and last year the other girls said that she was brave to try and bring acid wash back. she didn't think it was acid wash but they said it was and they laughed and they also all wore those giant sunglasses and loads of make-up so this year she wanted to fit in or maybe even stand out but not in a bad way. she needed a nice frock and boots and that all costs money even though her boyfriend says it doesn't matter to him if she wears acid wash. she told him it wasn't acid wash but he thought it was too but he didn't care.

she justified the sale because it wasn't her fault she had big tits and she couldn't help it if guys want to buy things from girls who have big tits. her boyfriend said he liked her tits a lot and he liked to mash them around but he wouldn't care if she had no tits and she figured he meant if she had small tits because having no tits at all would be a bit strange but actually now that she thought about it he would probably still love her even if she had no tits at all. he was a really nice guy and he would never tell a girl that he was buying something just because she had big tits.

she hoped his mates didn't give him a hard time about her. she sat with the other girls but sometimes she didn't know what to say because they would talk about the guys and who had a giant cock and who came too early and she watched the game and yelled things at the umpires.

she didn't have quite enough so she used her credit card, which is something she doesn't do except that time she bought a helicopter ride for her boyfriend because he likes helicopters a lot and she paid it off the next month. she looked in the mirror and she agreed with herself that she had done a good job and now she looked just like them except she couldn't work out how much eyeliner to put on because it was too much and then her boyfriend came in and gave her a squeeze from behind and a kiss on the neck and he told her that she looked great but he did the same thing last year so the only way she would find out is if the other girls said something nice or if they laughed again.

the handjob blog

Hey guys, this story is now featured in the first issue of Up. Check it out!

a handjob occurs when the woman uses the hand part of her body to stroke the penis part of a man's body.

sometimes there is no woman involved. i.e., man-on-man handjob action is permissible, and for some, preferable.

handjobs were invented by a couple of dutch teenagers in 1987.

prior to 1987 couples would engage in mouth jobs, dry humping, "foot rolling," or bawdy conversation.

common terms for a handjob include handy, palm sunday, tuggie, and tom hanks.

handjobs can relieve stress, boredom, frustration, depression, and erections.

ejaculation must occur for the handjob to be considered complete.

handjobs are not restrained to the bedroom. other places they can occur include: bathroom, swimming pool,  bus, movie theater, bleachers, beach, couch, shower, classroom, bushes, conference room, nightclub, car, ferris wheel, and on horseback.

lubrication is optional for handjobs. hot sauce is not a suitable lubricant.

if it tickles, you are doing it wrong.

integration is an emerging trend in the world of handjobs. people are beginning to incorporate handjobs into their daily activities. for example, you can get a handjob while eating lunch or while attending a parent teacher conference.

if every man in china faced the same direction at the same time while receiving a handjob the resulting wave of semen would generate enough force when it splotched on the ground to temporarily speed the earth's rotation by 0.000000000000000000000014 meters per second.

handjobs are appealing to people of all ages, however interest has subsided in recent years. a poll conducted by usa today revealed that people now prefer the following things to handjobs: butterflies; cookies with m&m's in them; mandy moore; two and a half men; telling it like it is; and robots.

the tender man and the lady who was different than the other ladies

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"Lance Bass wants to go into space!"

i did a google image search for cosmonaut because i like looking at pictures of cosmonauts and right there on results page 23 is a picture of lance bass. lance bass is an american pop singer who has always had a keen interest in space. as part of a proposed tv show lance bass completed several months of cosmonaut training in star city, russia and was certified by the russian space program. lance bass was scheduled to fly into space on the soyuz TMA-1 mission that was to be launched on october 30, 2002. the capsule was scheduled to fly to the international space station and land in a desert in kazakhstan.

but the proposed tv show fell through and the russians said that lance bass could not fly into space unless he came up with a lot of money to pay for his ticket. lance bass should not have had to pay for his own ticket because he was a certified cosmonaut. that isn't fair. however, lance bass was rejected from the program due to lack of funding. He was replaced on the flight by two russian cosmonauts and some belgian space traveling man. it took three people to replace lance bass.

even though lance bass never did get to go into space i will always respect his gumption and will consider him a cosmonaut nonetheless. next time i am looking at pictures of cosmonauts i will be sure to keep an eye out for images of lance bass in a space suit and i will say "lance bass, you are a cosmonaut."

not asleep

not asleep, awake. thinking. theories. stories. inventions. intentions. plans for things. a fish with wings, flying then dying in the air. a bear with the body of a bear and the face of another bear. too cold and too hot. giving it another shot. and then not. the sheets are tangled on my feet and maybe i'll give up cola and stop eating meat. i could read or get up or watch tv or build a robot. i could write a letter to somebody and then mail it to somebody else. or do other things that don't make any sense. erect a fence or masturbate. bake a cake or take a walk or draw a picture of a cow getting milked with an expression on her face. think about monkeys in outter space. count backwards from one or tally my money. call my friend in sweden and ask if he's swiss. fog up the mirror and draw a heart or ball up my fists and squeeze out a fart. think about the only girl i ever kissed. or make a list. oh nevermind it's morning now. or close enough, it's getting light. the end of another pointless night.

she might

i think she thought she might when she looked in the mirror that night, stripped down naked except for her socks. cut her hair with a pair of left handed scissors she found in a box. the end of an era. no more booze or pills or lies. no more vodka alone or coke through a straw. no more waking up on somebody's floor with tracks in her thighs and burnt out eyes. no more fucking for money then losing it on scratchies. hit rock bottom they said and i think she thought she had. but back in the mirror she'd peed. it was on her legs and they were too thin and she could feel herself giving in. that ugly face and the things she'd done, maybe just one more night of fun.

songs for chico

boogers
my boogers, my boogers, my boogers
my boogers, my boogers, are mine
if you want to pick some boogers
you'd better pick your own
and leave my boogers alone
because
my boogers, my boogers, my boogers

my boogers, my boogers, are mine

robots

robots, robots

we are robots

robots don't eat

robots don't sleep

robots just play

all day

track changes

he did things to her that he shouldn't have done. bad things. mean things. he hurt her. on her body and in her brain. then he changed. but the things he'd done remained the same.