May 2010
12 posts
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Fin.
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‘Your hair looks fabulous,’ she said coolly to her rival at the Flea market. ‘For once.’ Eyes rolled behind vintage specs.
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I last saw her pulling up in her minivan, leopard print jacket, menthol cigarette and a mini skirt at sixty. Rest in peace.
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Crammed into the too small elevator, she remarked, ‘God, we’re being Abramovic’d. Won’t someone strip naked and stare already?’
Reliving the con of confidence knitted when we were we by looping YouTube videos of cheers, applause and standing ovations.
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Lived in home with lots of clutter, scented of springtime tobacco rolled. Maybe an ant crawls here to there shocked by sleepless whispering.
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Maybe since my DS is pink, or because I name my Pokemon after blaxploitation stars, but after one good look, he stood the rest of the ride.
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She figures out which men are single by asking if their seat across is taken, but the men figure her out without trying.
Today’s craving started when he apologized for blowing smoke in my falafel.
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The awkwardness of dangling rice on otherwise perfectly painted lips was my ride home entertainment.
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The dilf enjoyed describing the joys of swimming with babies while his unsupervised son crawled his way to the deep end.
‘You can keep that nose of yours up high,’ she said, ‘but when I’m on my heels all you smell is tits.’
April 2010
20 posts
1 tag
She yelled louder than the train, harmonizing with the brakes. She skipped her stop to try it again.
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The cashier flirts by casually forgetting to ring up items, to which I responded, ‘Boy are you incompetent.’
One big ball of toilet air, fanned with gusto by disgruntlement. A final project gone awry.
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She was ready to thank me for holding the elevator, until she noticed his lack of pants.
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This migraine is an unwelcome migrant of your sincerity, now your insecurities have become my own.
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A room full of jazzmen climaxing mid crescendo, while one funky grandma sips her Earl Grey.
I seek solace in your mascara, cracked with metal whips and bearded plastics. That surreal moment of sin when you’ll profess I’m in.
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The foreign dignitary squeezed all his bodyguards into the elevator and got stuck. Thinking it was a coup, he surrendered to the mechanics.
The diorama of our time, to be installed in future museums, will be face tans & carpal tunnel, residues of hunted screens and gathered keys.
Three ginger snaps left, one lap to go. My sweat disintegrates the sweet. This sticky mess, my caloric run, a ruin to assess.
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The crowd of fifty took pictures of the sleeping drunk, while the Sunday suits sipped their Italian flavor infused coffee behind the window.
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The ladies asked the confused man to take their photo, but got instead a blurry closeup of his retina. And on the second try, my foot.
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The opposite of solitude is to be perfectly lost in the gang of others. Like pollen in the wind, pawns on a chessboard, or porn on the net.
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Paleness going but dirty as ever, the warm wind invites dust to collect on the thin pectorals of sunning hipsters.
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After apologizing for being late, she asked why she should let me into the grad program. ‘Because I’m smart and I’m always on time,’ I lied.
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They surround the snoring man, trying to decide the best way to wake him while the subway doors refuse to close on his foot.
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Upon discovering someone put hotdogs on the grill, the Stein-Shah family bbq got even more massively awkward.
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She ate the sesame porridge in careful spoonfuls by the counter. ‘How old do you think I am?’ She asked, then nodded to our honest reply.
I’m printing your reflection. I’m running the gamut to laser away that day. But I’m an imperfection. Our colors won’t blend, they say.
Like a shamanistic ritual, heat pressing ants on my underpants has somehow coaxed them out of hibernation and into my bed. Now to monetize.
March 2010
32 posts
I told him we had two hookahs in our house, but he misheard me. ‘Are they your roommates, or are they charging?’
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She put my beer and my soup on her tab and then fled.
My building manager crossed the driveway to attend mass for the first time ever. ‘This your garbage?’ He threw the litter on the pew.
A canker sore on my gumline keeps me smiling or else. It’s infectious.
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Surrounded by sweets in names beyond our linguistic skill, we ordered a combination of those things we most enjoy: honey and balls.
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The debris lay heavy on my eyelid, like it’s reminding me to do something or forget someone.
shoestringsocial asked: I read Trace Of Blue. I enjoyed it. It was touching. Thank you for writing it.
Our laundrette, as it turns out, is not nearly so happy, but ever since the surgery, when she turns her head her skin folds back to a smile.
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Plum soda downed with rum, hurting you by proxy through SMS, and the wind blows rampant.
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She scanned the sharpies, the sixpack of panties, and the bottle of Raid but couldn’t decide which one to price check first.
A subtle sparrow warmed itself on a Brooklyn stoop, as the lead-free solder cooled on its electronic counterpart inside.
This warmth induces Manhattanites to suddenly molt their non-human skin, and all was a sea of flesh, flesh, tranny tranny flesh.
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I have a dyke in my bed. Should I plug her hole and save Amsterdam?
Priorities took oxytocin for my split lip. A priori saved oxycodone for the split up.
‘You don’t know where Queens Blvd is, faggot?’ he said then sped on. Considering he didn’t either, I think he was hitting on me.
Led by a sea of interpreters, I voted against the girlfriend slasher, electing instead the other guy. What’s-his-face.
At least the cold won’t burn me.
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Sandwiched between crying babies to NYC, the woman next to me requested I turn off my bootleg Cremaster because it was disturbing her nap.