T the loner middle aged DJ is my surrogate poop. He defecates in my stead. I want him to live my diet of pork gherkins pizza broccoli yams cous cous.
Drones kill countless in wars that never happened in cyber space.
T the somber DJ has leased his asshole to 12 world leaders who don’t have organs.
It sucks to be empathetic sometimes, said a young man in the service industry. Today is one of those days.
I just found a place to live, Lorn said. There are going to be seven of us.
Remind me of your name.
My wife called me sweety. She was emotional. She said she loves me but can’t live with me.
I don’t blame her. I can barely live with myself.
I hope A doesn’t ransack my place or gets a goon to hurt me. I had a feeling that getting
involved with her would lead to trouble. She wasn’t sure if she was pregnant when I saw her in August. I loved to complete her half sentences. I will accept whatever happens.
She wanted me to know that she canceled me on Facebook.
The young salesman at Powell’s was helpful. He was able to locate the
Edith Pearlman’s short story collection I was looking for. We had a Hefeweizen beer.
He wanted to be a writer when he moved to Portland five years ago. He published a
book of short stories that didn’t sell well. He decided to go back to school to complete
a business degree.
A felt skinny when I held her. I have to be on the look out for her skinny Russian cousin and his crew of dubious musicians. It wouldn’t surprise me if she has them kick the shit out of me. It would be a shame to have my life snuffed by a marginalized gang of star gazing youth.