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Let's call this unfinished, too.

By the time you need it, it’s almost too late.

The ad said that the air conditioner worked great besides being hideous. It was one of those brown and beige numbers, possibly a fire hazard, but spit out the coldest fucking air you had ever felt.

The seller was “Finally taking the plunge with my hubby! His place has central air so I won’t be needing this anymore.”

I couldn’t decide what was more annoying about this ad: The fact that she used the word, “Hubby”, the fact that her husband definitely had to be…

An unfinished essay from a forthcoming, yet to be named nor well thought out essay collection.

There is an episode of The Simpsons where Homer is taking boudoir photos for Marge. In their basement, the photographer has set up a lavish set. Homer appears wearing a robe and a firefighter’s hat. Homer nervously drops his robe to the ground, naked except for a pair of briefs. His stomach comically bulges out. The photographer shudders and then proceeds to slath a pile of Vaseline on her lens.

1. ) It’s shitty how often fatness is the butt of a joke
2. )…

An unfinished essay from a forthcoming, yet to be named nor well thought out essay collection.

People can do some wild shit with peanut butter.

There are the obvious things like sandwiches and cookies, or the more incredible things like peanut butter chicken. Peanut butter never costs that much, unless you’re bougie like me. You can still get some peanut butter for under 2$, but I tend to stick to the five and six-dollar varieties.

All-natural. I deserve nothing but the best.

Every so often, if I’m having a great day at the grocery store and have a little more…

Photo by Sigmund on Unsplash

An unfinished essay from a forthcoming, yet to be named nor well thought out essay collection.

To say that I always knew I was queer is kind of a lie. For me, looking at girls or women or breasts didn’t always feel like an unnatural divergence, it felt right. Like most things regarding sexuality, I didn’t realize that I was supposed to be ashamed of these feelings.

And I feel that most queer people felt some sort of sexual feeling about the gender they were attracted to. …

A silly little game

Photo by REX WAY on Unsplash


TW: Suicidal Ideation

I am not playing chicken with death, it’s more like a game of Marco Polo.

When I am struggling, I call out for it. For a quick fix to this “sad” problem that seems to show up when I least expect it. I could always just rip the blindfold off, stare it straight in its blank face, but I leave it on. I am assured that it’s still there, ever-present beyond the warm blackness of my closed eyes.

The thing is, I don’t want to die. Not really. When I think about suicide, it’s not something…

It compels you

Photo by Jeremy Perkins on Unsplash

I am convinced that Evangelicals are more obsessed with the occult than actual partitioners of magic. For a group that blanches at the thought of Pokémon or Halloween, they seem to have an almost intimate knowledge of magic. Whether or not this was for insuring that us young and impressionable Christians never joined the ranks of our local goth pagans and Wiccans, Christian media’s approach to further demonizing the occult is heavy-handed.

Christians are very good at commercials. Doom and gloom? You got it. Bad acting? By the bucketful. I learned a lot through those commercials. My mother kept the…

Photo by Gabor Barbely on Unsplash

Trapeze Artist

From an upcoming untitled essay collection

There are certain undeniable truths you learn as a child. Of course, these don’t really hold much mettle as you get older, but the impact remains the same. For example, I was pretty sure that running away to the circus was a thing.

It was mentioned so much in different mediums, from cartoons to books to being used as a turn of phrase. Was there some special program for soon-to-be runaway children that all circuses had? Some sort of universal code like the direction you turn…

Photo by David Fanuel on Unsplash

It should have had a name


What will we call this?

When I gently touch your hand,

And stand on tiptoe to reach your ear, lips brushing.

What should we make of this,

This shapeless thing?

This thing that finds my hand inching towards yours in the back of a cab,

The thing that laughs and says it’s better that way.

I could not write it out,

If I tried.

You could fill my empty glass again.

2–4–1, sticky and soda sweet,

My legs brush yours in bars and

My hands itch to write you deeper into me.

Photo by Victoria Chen on Unsplash

I want to peel this girl,

Like a god damn mandarin.

She is so sweet.


Photo by lucas clarysse on Unsplash

Her voice was scratchy,

Jeans cuffed and

she had these huge, brown eyes.

Of course, she would be the one

To wake me up.


Reverent toward impossibly huge robots and Folgers coffee.

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