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."