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.
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The sweet nothings from her lipstick smeared cell phone are the sole reason every window of this bus is fogged up.
On nights I’m angry at you, I record your snores for the day that I’ll miss them.
Sounds just like you and me on an afternoon or Sunday morning, broadcasting our call, your mumbles never on the receiver.
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Five rows away from the Magnetic Fields, I can’t help but wonder how our love polarized. But I’ll get over it. http://j.mp/abeSsz
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Emily Mayer, art star, taxidermist and ex-chairbitch of the guild showed us her lovely dog’s bollocks. http://j.mp/d2NAwJ
‘You leave that Sandra alone.’ She pointed with her hook. ‘Say one bad thing about her and I’ll crochet you a new one.’
The joy of presenting a midterm for critique and hearing, ‘She needs more entrails, more glitter and at least six more tits.’
The memory of burning the paper plate doused in pizza oil is emblazoned in every one of our minds except the arson’s.
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‘No we never scissored,’ she said. ‘But we did open up our ladies like a cape and touch.’
The taste of homemade rendang on a plastic spoon is a rush of memory, spicy and dry unlike the winter night.
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‘Is this in the way?’ Chris Jordan asked of his metal canteen before his photo of 2 million plastic bottles, the # we use every 5 minutes.
‘I’m not pregnant, just fat,’ she said. ‘Then you have no excuse,’ said the other encouragingly.
‘You’re way off,’ said the security guard. ‘The building you want is right there,’ and penned a circle on the touch screen in ink.
Tired of the churchgoers, praying around the white van stuck in the snow heap, the building manager hobbled forward and threw them a shovel.