Why don’t you quit your job, she says.
It’s not that simple. I need insurance. What if I get cancer. What if I have to spend eight hours a day in chemo getting my blood poisoned. Brain erased. Plus commute. It costs a lot for them to kill you slowly. What if I get someone pregnant. The baby gets cancer. What if I can’t provide. What if my rent goes up. What if I had to move. To get an apartment you need good credit. To get good credit you need to borrow money. To borrow money you need to have money. To have money, you need a job. Don’t you get it. I work, then come home. Go to bed early. I got a better shot at cancer than at a girlfriend. Continue reading
image from joshobrouwers.com
Missed call.12:32 AM from Gracie Tinder August 2016.
Who is that. Did I say bad shit about her? Could she accuse me of rape? AIDS? Pregnant? August 2016– 8 months ago. That’s not an abortion call. That’s an I’m having it call. Good. Finally this all means something. Continue reading
Don’t quit smoking. Don’t go to work. Don’t save money. Don’t pay taxes, bills. Don’t be kind to women. Get a new name in a new country where you can beat your 13 year old wife and live on 2 dollars a day. Continue reading
She was a fat. Guatemalan– no, Costa Rican; she had a wide nose with crudely painted contouring makeup on it. She had autoimmune diseases. Wouldn’t tell me what they were but not AIDS. Some third world thing because her mother couldn’t breastfeed her. She took tramadol and about 10 other pills I couldn’t recognize. She had IBS. She was a vegetarian and also can’t eat milk eggs wheat. I can basically eat potatoes and water, she said. She was 22 though. That’s enough. But she wouldn’t come back to my apartment to have raw sex and play Far Cry Primal. I kept asking, she kept saying no thanks. Continue reading
I was on a podcast called Not A Huge Fan, talking about why I don’t write under my real name.
I read some shit out loud at 18:02 and 49:13.
What Do You Do
The Zombie Zone
Marcy Pendergrass was putting up the Halloween decorations. The one hot girl in the office. He’d been promoted but his cubicle was the same. Gray desk behind a gray wall five feet high. She held two rolls of fake police tape with cartoon letters. Do you want the vampire zone or the zombie zone, she asked. Continue reading
Every morning he thought: I can’t do this one more day. Often by the 5 offramp where a line of buses switching freeways made a bottleneck behind a blind curve. He’d be going fast around the bend and suddenly slow buses like a herd of elephant. Behind them an 80’s Jap pickup with six extra feet of steel pipe hanging out the back. Sometimes with a red rag tied on it. Sometimes not. Drivers from lawless places.
Pipe right at eye level and once a week he almost got lanced in the face like a jousting accident. He’d read about a woman killed by a flying manhole cover. She was driving and an oil truck bumping over it set it spinning like a giant Chinese star. Through the windshield into her eyes like the Simpsons’ dog with the frisbee. My luck it’d just make me uglier, he thought. Ugly blind and retarded. Then I’d step in the manhole. Continue reading