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.

I told him we had two hookahs in our house, but he misheard me. ‘Are they your roommates, or are they charging?’

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.

Surrounded by sweets in names beyond our linguistic skill, we ordered a combination of those things we most enjoy: honey and balls.

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.

Wow, that was written back when my work was mostly 140 pages. Thank you for reading!

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.

Plum soda downed with rum, hurting you by proxy through SMS, and the wind blows rampant.

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.

I have a dyke in my bed. Should I plug her hole and save Amsterdam?