Of course, the most futile thing of all, she says, is life: in the end you die and don’t get to enjoy your legacy, whatever the fuck that means.
Only our first date and already I want to marry her.
“The way you imagine god’s minty fresh breath smells is how good Ryan Gosling looks.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
You know, she says, you don’t really have to be such a dick all the time.
I look at her and wonder what she means. My mother and I don’t really get along.
A threesome with one woman and another man really gets you everything you could ever want.
Never worry, she said, everyone thinks you’re exactly as useless and impotent and pathetic and fat as you think.
Then, she sucked my dick but didn’t swallow.
The only thing I knew I could change beside me was her.
Then, I finally fell in love.
[lcd soundsystem, I CAN CHANGE]
I am her mother’s age. But she isn’t her mother.
Going to the movies alone is the best thing about being married.
[quick note: man, today tumblr sucks. fucking everything is about your terrible sexual politics, and what you don’t like, and the people you’d fuck, and the bad shitty cartoons you still watch as an adult, and how much you hate your job but won’t quit, and how fat you are, and pictures of cats, and how everyone who isn’t about you is racist/homophobic/misogynistic/etc., and how pathetic you really are but think you are clever. lighten the fuck up. jesus.]
She said if I looked in her eyes I’d see how they’re speckled with tiny bits of gold.
I leaned in so close our noses touched. She opened her eyes as wide as she could.
I looked in her eyes.
I said her eyes were brown.
She slapped me and said I was an asshole. She stormed off.
We married two days later.
The sheriff’s officer, he gives me a ride home from downtown because when he asks me where I live and tell him, he says he realizes it’s four in the morning on a Sunday and he’ll just take me home.
The entire fifteen minute ride, the police man, he talks to me about his wife and their sons, and how each of them must make their own choices. He tells me about his church and asks me if I’m Catholic. He asks me if he knows how lucky I am to be let out OR. I say yes to everything.
Nearly five in the morning, he pulls up along my street, in front of my building, and says I need to be more careful, unzips his fly, takes out his hard uncut dick, and says, “You never know what could happen to you,” and I say a little prayer.
[full disclosure. also, this.]
I’m glad I’m no longer young enough to still believe that forever means FOREVER.
At a diner, somewhere in the middle of the night, I think someone who isn’t me is out there having sex with someone else who isn’t me.
I once killed a cat not too see if I could do it, but rather, to see if I could do it a fiftieth time.
Yes, you’re sitting across a table from me. You’re talking. You’re saying something I want to really listen to, but I keep losing interest. Your hair, is it blonde or brown? Are your eyes really green? Who’re your inspirations, who were you imagining when you picked out that sun dress? What do you really want to say? Your tits are not too big, and that’s always nice. You’re talking about school. You’re talking about your finals projects. I don’t care. It makes me think only of how different we are. I don’t know why you’re here. I know why I’m here but it’s costing me more than money. I like the way you smile. It’s why I’m here. And the way you might look naked on your kitchen floor.
“It isn’t you, it isn’t me. It’s us that’s the problem.”
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Shot with Miss Crash today. Photo ©2013 Coop.
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