This was 1999 and travel agencies were getting killed off by the internet and I was selling my vintage 1972 Pontiac LeMans because my wife, Corrine, fucked an FBI agent in it.… more
This was 1999 and travel agencies were getting killed off by the internet and I was selling my vintage 1972 Pontiac LeMans because my wife, Corrine, fucked an FBI agent in it.… more
The doctor told me to be more juvenile with my sexuality. To rub myself up against furniture. Doorknobs. To mimic the actors on the pornos he had me watch, pushing my ass up and spreading myself wide. He was an amputee.… more
The rain doesn’t want you to dawdle at the end of the workday. The rain is your bully. It will piss in your Cheerios. It has one mission—purge the streets… more
He worries about his jeans—sweatpants may have been wiser. He worries about a rush of over-eager blood after the young nurse asks him to remove them. He worries the doctor judges him when he answers, No children.… more
It began, as these things often do, with a name—Steve—which struck me, even then, as appallingly flat. A name like an unbuttered toast, slightly burnt.… more
Kill me softly with your lipstick mouth, glistening like bloodhoney—haunted by spirits— under the slow burn of this bar light sun.… more
He’s naked and she’s dead and he has more to say to her in that shower than he ever does to me.… more
John felt unoriginal—an insurance company office worker offing himself in his cheap apartment. But this weapon had balls. His friends and family could take pride in knowing he’d killed himself in this way.… more
It was the way Conan moved through the world—never giving up, the way his sword cut through everything without hesitation. Alone but not lonely. He never looked back. He didn’t wait for anyone to come home.… more