A deeply potentially closeted white male friend of mine the other day said, ‘You know what Nunich. It really hurts my feelings and makes me sad. How you say I’m homosexual. When you call me a fag in front of my friends.’ I regarded him soberly and considered his complaining request, his sharing in words. ‘You know why it hurts your feelings and makes you sad?’ I said, ‘No,’ he said, ‘Cause you’re a motherfucking fag,’ I said, ‘That’s why.’
Putting up these beautifully printed pretty paper blinds and unpacking the items. Each blind comes with tiny clear plastic bags with little screws, brackets, hooks and things. Each tiny bag has DO NOT EAT written in black bold uppercase letters printed on it. Are people so retarded?
in celebration of silence an expired treasure worked for by others i’m ungrateful in a way i’m more interested in the weather i’m thinking of a place that doesn’t exist a crop formation in my head planted by the dead missing their lonely children while watching me purposefully overdose on class c narcotics i don’t deserve it i carelessly breathe the oxygen they cherish just the way our breath seeks life they watch me fucking and forgetting speeding by the exits i saw beauty in not ever looking back wasted choices scream their voices i’m alive and among the dead gathered around my head expecting me to open my arms to a deity among my astral plane they follow me in my trials waiting for me to find a meaning i’ve yearned for they know and i know that the place i’m looking for the open fields the warm sensations the real we are all on the wrong side of the wall i wish you could hold your children and complete your lives while i watch alone is everything
Having screwed both sides in what Gately secretly views as a delicious fuck-up, Randy Lenz has, since May, been the most wanted he’s probably ever been. He is seedily handsome in the way of pimps and low-level coke dealers, muscular in the MP-ish way that certain guys’ muscles look muscular but can’t really lift anything, with complexly gelled hair and the little birdlike head-movements of the deeply vain.
The insect on the shelf was back. It didn’t seem to do anything. It just came out of the hole in the girder onto the edge of the steel shelf and sat there. After a while it would disappear back into the hole in the girder, and he was pretty sure it didn’t do anything in there either. He felt similar to the insect inside the girder his shelf was connected to, but was not sure just how he was similar… It occurred to him that he would disappear into a hole in a girder inside him that supported something else inside him. He was unsure what the thing inside him was and was unprepared to commit himself to the course of action that would be required to explore the question.
“That was what you did. You died. You did not know what it was about. You never had time to learn. They threw you in and told you the rules and the first time they caught you off base they killed you. Or they killed you gratuitously like Aymo. Or gave you the syphilis like Rinaldi. But they killed you in the end. You could count on that. Stay around and they would kill you.”—Ernest Hemingway A Farewell To Arms