i just received the proof copy of I AM GOING TO CLONE MYSELF THEN KILL THE CLONE AND EAT IT. there is nothing left to do. i have read the book probably fifty times altogether by now. it is something different to me now. i don't know what i am talking about. my favorite thing in it is a really long poem called I SMASH MY SMILE AGAINST YOURS. i am finishing the other books. i think i will stop writing when i can't do something that i think is better than what i just did. i think i will stop writing if i ever titty fuck two different people in the same day. today i figured out that moving from the relief of one worry to the inception of another is how i spend my time. me and daniel bailey are going to start a print/online journal called THE HAPPY HUMAN DIGEST. we are going to dicuss things over some king cobra at AWP. my neighbor knocked on my door last night and when i opened it she told me my keys were still in the door. i said "oh" because that is the only thing to say. i should've treated the keys like a runaway child and pushed them back into the apartment and said to my neighbor, "don't worry, i will see that this doesn't happen again." but i went with "oh." then she laughed at me. touchdown for me. 100 points. treat your gender like a chore. refuse everyone. smile once in history. i am going to make my neighbor a card that says, "Key-p being a nice person!" and then draw a big key giving a thumbs up. today is day thirty of practicing my vertical jumping. one day i will jump straight up and never come back.

!!!!!!RECENT DEVELOPMENT!!!!!!: i just tried to put a shirt on and it got all tangled and backwards and i felt completely crushed for a few seconds.



I AM GOING TO CLONE MYSELF THEN KILL THE CLONE AND EAT IT is on goodreads. i don't know what goodreads is. but it is. you can write stupid shit on the goodreads page and i will be happy.

i was invited to join FICTIONAUT. i joined fictionaut. i like it. i posted a part of the poetry book i am working on and a long play from the book of plays i am working on. someone called the poetry excerpt "a rant of unbelievable hurt." believe it baby. belee dat.

i received my copy of GUSTAF magazine in the mail the other day. it is one of the nicest things i have been in. they published everything i sent them:

and something else i can't remember

i also really liked brandon scott gorrell's pieces and wagner israel cilio's. mahfahckas is trill mobbin'. GUSTAF has mob stability.

i think i want to start sending out submissions again. i have a bunch of stuff.

i read blake butler's SCORCH ATLAS the other day. he emailed it to me. it's ridiculous. people talk about sentences a lot. i think the sentences are good but the ideas are better. it's like every sentences is a plot. i asked blake to send me RICKY'S BLOOD (formerly RICKY"S ANUS) and i skimmed parts but will read it front to back soon. it looks better than SCORCH. i am going to buy EVER off him at AWP then read it to a homeless man with the promise of splitting a six pack of "OJOS MALOS" tallboys.

someone told me i look like rasputin yesterday:



hi. chris killen and socrates adams florou made a video of a poem i wrote. here is the video and the poem. you can destroy a small city with a somersault if the city is small enough and if you don't have a bad back. i feel a sense of accomplishment if i get up and then sit down again. thanks for watching the video. never breed yourself.

p.s. socrates and chris made another video that is nice. it is here.



I can make a gift for you that is a snowball in a brown paper bag and I can make a gift for you that is confetti cut from lamplight and I make gifts like that I think that is all I do. If I knew what I was doing I would stop doing it. Today after I did someone a favor that someone shook my hand and the frowning muscles slipped into smiling muscles. A small town can become a big field if you destroy it thoroughly. My face hurts from frowning. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings or offend you but if I do I will do nothing to help. I feel incredibly negative all the time. I apologize. People act according to how many people they want to visit their grave or just think about visiting their grave. A car crash breaks your arm but sitting still breaks your spine and some things explode without moving. And underneath each of my fingernails there is a friend with their legs and arms pointing up waiting to be turned over so they can crawl away. I like to be constantly half damaged. I guide a river into your sleeping ear and it comes out the other end a different color. You get one long chance to be a failure and the fewer times you fail the bigger that chance gets. Have a nice night and be pleased by rupturing your own blood cells. I can’t believe I am this close to the ground. Kill everyone and do jumping jacks on the spill. If I had a map of the places I have walked and moved it wouldn’t be a real shape. Hail satan. Mop up what you feel and throw it away so no one finds it. Being stable is a real life demonstration of being dead and happy. A picture of the back of my head proves that other places exist. I want to fall in front of you and make you laugh. The problem is that talking makes more air and it all looks the same. The only difference between things is what scrapes what. A big rock becomes a small rock becomes a big rock becomes something you throw into the air and hope kills you. I would run away from someone who said they could help me feel better. When I say mean things I am apologizing quietly in my head. And isn’t it great how quiet some things are. The best feeling is needing to tell someone something and then deciding not to, even though it would change everything. How many times have you held the answer in and felt like a shitty little petty motherfucker champion. There is an i.v. of the times I have thought, “I don’t know what I am talking about” and it is swelling my veins. Prove yourself to someone and then pray that person never moves far away from you. I swear I am trying to be a good person. I am sorry I have laundry and I am sorry I have made more people cry than have made me cry. And I am eighteen every few minutes. I am the only son of a puddle’s crater. Move into my bedroom and never leave unless I start to hate you which is only a sign I have realized the way I mistreat you. Look how big I am. My face hurts from frowning. My hands are swollen from getting mad and doing nothing but sitting down. I will never surgically remove anyone’s cancer. I will never teach anyone how to do math. I will never give birth. I will never jump-rope off a mountain. I will never perform a magic trick that makes someone happy. I try to make people laugh so for a period of a few seconds I have done nothing wrong and I owe nothing. I am walking around and I am pushing buildings into Lake Michigan. Would you be sad if the building you are in becomes a boat? I spend too much time worrying. I am getting close to accomplishing the greatest feat of human quietness. There is so much time I think I will prove it by doing nothing today. I have copies of your dental record and I cover my window with them so your teeth and their roots are the first thing to touch my face when I wake up. Look around everyone is a disabled fuck trying to prove something. I hope I never upset you but I hope if I do I hope it feels horrible. I am horrified. Somewhere in a cave there is a drop falling off an icicle and it is looking around to see if anyone saw what it just did. I am always trying to prove I am not a waste of time. If you smile I win. I am a nice person to other people because if I let the negativity out I will be put in jail. I am less interested in how I can hurt other people than how they can hurt me. Sit down in your room and really think if there is anything that will hurt your feelings still. Vow it will never happen again and quietly apologize to yourself and don’t accept the apology. My eyes float up and split in half on the sockets of my skull. Best friends are flimsy. I am not interested in being a goodlooking human anymore. I am surprised at how quickly I try to make every situation totally negative. I am surprised at how quickly I make up an answer when someone asks me what I am thinking or how I feel, just to get them to be quiet. We are good at becoming older. I am covered by motionless bodies and I am trying to get out from underneath. My mother was a dragonfly that flew into a tree and ate its own wings to stay alive. God bless my shapeless head. There will be a perfect moment and I will jump out of it like someone in an action movie eluding an explosion. The real world is a low moving wind in the shape of a scythe that cuts your legs off and heals you and wants you to live to see how incomplete you are. I think that everyone I meet thinks they could love me. Everything is done, I have set fire to the ends of my veins and it will take forever but everything is done. The blinds covering the sliding glass door are unimportant. I want people to think about me and want me. Decide which things you will completely ruin and then do the best job you can do. The best way to get older is to try not to. I became a priest and I married your leg and me last night while you were sleeping. I am willing to build a treehouse in the tree in your backyard and protect you. Being insecure is the best way to protect yourself. I will hit the side of my head with my hands until my head is long enough to send through space and split space into halves, requiring everyone to choose one side or the other. Mass mistakes. I am sorry I am a perverse reject. I can change the color of my eyes by looking at the sun or by syringing nail polish into my eyes. Every day I remember things that remind me I am a brand new human every few seconds and every few seconds I am reminded I am always a brand new version of the same person and I remember never being different every few seconds I am reinvented as the same aging pile of ridiculous garbage. I feel like no one trusts me. I feel that I am ok with that. I feel everything and it is horrible. Move away from your home and think about being there again and the people who miss you will miss your more. If I were my couch I would hate myself. Disintegrate. Change everything. Put your hand over your mouth until your hand is too warm to be comfortable. Fuck my birthday. We get so much time I am so thankful. I will never be a grandpa. Can I come over and sit in your fridge? What time will you come over and hammer me into the ground with your balled hand? Somewhere between the ground and the air there is a plane of pure disregard that is about as tall as me and I eat it. We are getting high on the waves of sad humans handing their lives over to chance. I have made many mistakes. I am not upset. I have ten fingers and ten toes and they are all asking me what to do next. The more I think backwards and forwards I realize underneath my feet is becoming soft. I would like it if I was a centimeter tall unknown by the giant humans. The first thing I would do is lie down in the carpet and sleep for a whole day straight. The bite marks on my arm will be converted into a rainbow and a rainbow is the dumbest pretty object people assign meaning to. Look out here comes 2:53 a.m. and I don’t have a family. I must be a hundred feet tall because when I lie down and then get up I feel like I am far away from where I began. There is only one lesson. There is only one lesson. If I figured out what I was doing I would stop doing it. I am in love with everyone. Today I will show you how to explode without moving. Marvelous. There is only one kind of hurt and it comes to you in varying degrees of prevalence and the worst degree feels like nothing is happening at all. Oh my god. Forever is an idea that people made up to feel sorry for themselves. Get on with becoming tired. Something about sitting completely still is the best thing ever. I promise never to understand the things I attempt to understand. I promise I will never try to be negative. I promise I will always be negative. There are many ways to say what seems like a lie but is completely true. I am a helicopter my head is never still and my body is always still. Diseased motherfuckers of the world hold hands and lie down in a giant pile. The person who is late to the pile will be able to measure the pile and set it on fire with a small smile the size of the most petty human alive. You can’t teach yourself how to play on a playground when there is no one else there. You can’t learn anything when there are other people there.



the journal KITTY SNACKS has posted another poem of mine. it is from a book of poems i wrote that is almost done. the poem is called DEAD WHITE PERSON. KITTY SNACKS will be sending out the print edition soon. the print edition has other poems of mine. me me me.

WHAT TO WEAR DURING AN ORANGE ALERT interviewed JA TYLER about his new chapbook. i did the cover. i feel good that JA TYLER doesn't hate me. maybe he does and he is being polite.

you can order BLAKE BUTLER'S novella EVER.



a couple days ago i had an idea to write something and send it to TITULAR. i had an idea to write something called WALKER, TEXAS RANGER. i wrote it and sent it. then i had an idea to write more of the same kind of thing. here are all of them. i like TITULAR. i feel like it is a journal that makes people creative. i think i am going to do more. if you have ideas for more tell me. writings the things below occupied my life for a period of time that has since been supplanted by a large absence. i have created links to each of the shows if you don't know them.


Bill O’Reilly is sitting in his parked car staring forward, rubbing his fingers in his hair then smelling them. He got home five minutes ago but doesn’t want to get out of his car. Sometimes Bill O’Reilly thinks about what he is going to do in advance and then can’t do it. He imagines moving his legs up and down the stairs to get to his apartment and that seems impossible. He is afraid he won’t be able to move the muscles in his hand to open the door. Bill O’ Reilly tries to smear a bug off his windshield but he realizes the bug is on the outside. He is parked crookedly. That bothers him. He finally decides to leave the car. On the way through the parking lot he encounters his landlord. He has the rent check in his pocket and was going to drop it off, but now he has to actually go into the landlord’s office because she harbors some vague expectation of her tenants, wherein they all act like family and not disconnected tenants with no interest in each other. Bill O’Reilly knows he could never explain that to her because it would always sound mean, no matter what. His landlord says, “Oh hey, come on in to the office real quick I want to show you something.” Bill O’Reilly considers the effect of just telling his landlord that he has pancreatic cancer so he can walk away. Would that work? Would that free him? O’Reilly feels this would definitely work at present, but would then require a sustained effort, one entailing the repetition of the lie and he knew he wouldn’t remember it. He follows his landlord into her office and she shows him a Halloween decoration she bought. It is a werewolf. It is supposed to do something. Bill O’Reilly thinks, “just stand still and look at the thing and wait for it to do what it is supposed to do, then react the same way your landlord reacts, then leave the office quickly but without running or tripping.” The landlord continues to try to get the werewolf to activate. She lifts up the back panel of cloth/fur and flips a button a few times. Ten full minutes pass. Bill O’Reilly thinks, “just walk out.” He has often thought of walking away from someone when he realizes he doesn’t want to talk to them. The werewolf starts to move and the plastic creaks. There is a Halloween song coming from small speakers. Bill O’Reilly immediately says, “this is wonderful.” He allows his landlord to smile for exactly fifteen seconds before he leaves and doesn’t turn around. “Fifteen seconds is the perfect amount of time for someone to react but not have a chance to say anything else,” thinks Bill O’Reilly, trying three keys and finally unlocking his apartment door. He kicks his shoes off and goes to shut the door. The door breaks two of his smallest toes, trapping them beneath. Bill O’Reilly presses his forehead into the wall and feels the roots of his top and bottom teeth scratch into his facial muscles when he tenses. He looks at the blood on his toes. He slows his breathing. His breathing slows and he becomes very peaceful. He breathes for exactly fifteen minutes, which is the perfect amount of time for someone to stop thinking about their life but not enough time to start again. Bill O’Reilly feels like he has a bad fever. Maybe he doesn’t though. He doesn’t know what to do. He puts on his shoes again, tucking the broken toes in carefully, then sits in his car and falls asleep with the back of his head hanging over the headrest. It gets dark and cold. Bill O’Reilly is in his car.


It is morning and Michael Knight is buttoning up his shirt. He remembers that he is not allowed to leave his house while still naked. “I am the shit,” he thinks and then smiles at his wall. Then Michael Knight seriously doubts everything about himself. He even doubts that he is the shit. The doubt increases. He wants to sit down. He tries to think of a past accomplishment to remedy the increasing doubt. He sees a “first place medal” lying on the floor. Michael Knight’s little brother made it for him out of paper and markers. Michael Knight is pretty sure his little brother wouldn’t lie about him being a first place kind of person, but Michael Knight also knows how much people lie. He suddenly worries that everyone is lying to him about everything, and that maybe the woman at the cash register at Walgreen’s yesterday did not want him to have a nice night at all. He envisions killing the woman with a large rock. “What the fuck is wrong with me,” he thinks. Then he shakes his head and goes to put his jacket on. While putting his jacket on, one of the sleeves gets stuck and he panics. He clamps his teeth down so hard his whole skull hurts. He fights the urge to lie down and scream. The sleeve relents and Michael Knight takes a few deep breaths. He leaves his room. He goes for a walk. He doesn’t like to use his car because he is worried he will crash and die and also the car always talks to him and it is like, that voice of that one guy from “Boy Meets World.” On the walk he passes his neighbor’s house. There is a dog in the front yard, walking unchained. Michael Knight stops and stares at the dog. The dog stares back. Michael Knight and the dog stare at each other for a period of time that would be considered normal for a dog, but perhaps abnormal for a human. “If that dog is a female dog, that dog is wet, because I am the shit” thinks Michael Knight. He can think of no other way of checking aside from putting his finger between the dog’s legs. But he vowed to never do that, so instead he continues to stare. Eventually, he becomes angry at the dog, and wants the dog to attack him so he can beat the dog to death. He conceives various ways of effectuating this. He decides that if he imagines his head to be a steak for long enough, that his head will actually resemble a steak and the dog will attack him. After fifteen minutes of imaging, he tires then walks away. He sees the mailman in the distance, putting mail into someone’s mailbox. Michael Knight hides behind a bush until the mailman is gone. When the mailman is gone, Michael Knight sneaks out and takes the mail out of the mailbox. He walks the mail to a post office. He buys a large envelope and stuffs the mail inside, then mails the new mail to the address on the original mail. “This will make this person’s life slightly more exciting,” he thinks. Then he walks away and hopes he can find someone selling Crystal Methamphetamine, a drug he loves and does every day. Michael Knight wants badly to take off his clothes and walk down the street but then he remembers that he is required by law to remain fully clothed. He thinks about going back and staring at the dog more.


At 3:57 a.m., Walker, Texas Ranger wakes up. He sits up on his bed. His bed has no blankets on it. The bed rests on the floor, not a frame, since Walker, Texas Ranger stored the frame at his friend’s house but has been too lazy to retrieve it. He looks at the clock and reads each number. He is sure that he woke up a few times already and the clock said the same thing. Then he realizes he set the time a while back and forgot to click the plastic button on top that makes the clock begin to count time. Walker, Texas Ranger rubs his head and coughs. He is very pissed and tired. He lets his arms drop. When he lets his arms drop, his hands touch the floor. It pisses him off that his hands are touching the floor because it seems wrong that he can touch his floor while still in bed. “I will get the frame tomorrow,” he thinks. Then he thinks, “Oh wait, I should probably just sit in my room all day tomorrow and do nothing.” He forgot he had planned on doing that. Walker, Texas Ranger gets up from his bed and punches a hole in the wall. For some reason he expects an overtly bad guy to emerge, devastated by the punch. But only dust falls out from the hole, onto Walker, Texas Ranger’s bed. “Now I am super pissed,” he thinks. Then he counter-thinks, “So what.” He walks out of his room and manipulates his boxers to account for a mild erection. Walker, Texas Ranger coughs a little because his throat is dry and at the end of the hallway he stops and says, “What do I have to do to get some fucking water around here.” He then walks into his kitchen because he remembers that all he has to do to get some water around there is fill a glass up himself. He feels both relief and dread when he realizes that. Walker, Texas Ranger walks into his kitchen. He looks around. He looks at his hands for some reason. Then he looks at the cabinet while he tries to figure out why he looked at his hands. He tries to remember if he should be doing anything. Then he tries to remember how many bones are in the human body. He walks to his window and opens the blinds with his fingers. It is still dark out. Walker, Texas Ranger thinks about practicing his punch-blocking skills and also his headlock skills but he remembers how good he is at both. He walks back to the kitchen. He tries to recall the last time he went to the dentist. He thinks maybe his dad is a dentist. In an attempt to visualize his dad’s face, Walker, Texas Ranger only completes about half. He fills in the other half with the features of a lobster. He touches all his teeth to test them. None of them are loose. He thinks really hard about whether or not he wants to get the water still. Walker, Texas Ranger looks at his hands again then stands by the sink and closes his eyes. His eyes burn. He opens them and sees the sink. He taps his fingers on the edge of the sink and waits to think of something, it doesn’t matter what it is. He does all of this eight thousand more times with varying degrees of anger and throat-dryness. It is 3:57 a.m. and Walker, Texas Ranger is in his kitchen.


Clarissa is on the couch in her living room. She has the tv on. She likes to study shows and then piece together stories that she can tell strangers, acting like the stories are her own. Clarissa stops looking at the tv for a second and looks out her window. She thinks about all the situations and products and movies and birthday parties and everything else people do to keep from feeling miserable. Sometimes when she is at the store and she reads the words on the front of magazines, she feels crushed because she doesn’t understand anything. She can explain it all, but sometimes she can't understand anything. She blinks a few times and turns back to the tv. She reaches out to her coffee table and grabs a sandwich she made. She bites the sandwich and a piece of tuna falls out and slides down her pants into her rolled-up pant-cuff. “There it is,” she thinks, “this is the most pathetic moment of my life.” Then Clarissa shrugs and thinks, “I am being a dumb ass, this doesn’t matter” and she picks the piece of tuna out of her cuff link, then eats it. She stares at the tv and wonders if she could build a brick wall in front of her roommate’s door while her roommate is sleeping. Would that be possible? For it to harden and everything? She concludes, “probably not.” Clarissa hears footsteps in the hallway outside her apartment. “The mailman,” she thinks, then quickly drops her sandwich back to the plate and runs quietly to the door. She grabs her special weapon off the endtable near the door. The special weapon is made of a wire hanger and some duct tape. She bends down and hurriedly jabs the special weapon underneath the doorframe in an attempt to stab the mailman’s toes and feet. The mailman is gone when she tries. Clarissa [who is able to explain it all] thinks, “Another failure.” While she is grieving her failure, she sees an old m&m on the floor. “Fuck yeah,” she says, then eats the m&m. She stretches and thinks, “why not just take a nap here on the floor I will do that.” While she is lying on the floor, holding her special weapon and trying to sleep, her roommate approaches from down the hall. Her roommate stops and stares at Clarissa. Clarissa tries to kind-of open her eyes but she thinks her roommate notices so she closes them again. The roommate steps over Clarissa and leaves the apartment. While the roommate is leaving, the door kind of hits Clarissa and Clarissa feels pissed off. “I don’t even know why I made this special weapon,” she thought. “I am too weak to use it.” Then Clarissa gets up and returns to the couch and wonders if she is really able to explain it all. And will she ever be able to explain it all again. She decides to play the lottery at some point. Clarissa sits on her couch staring at the tv, eating her tuna sandwich thinking about the things she would buy if she won the lottery. Before realizing that she would still be miserable no matter what she owns, she decides that she would first buy a Galaga arcade game. She puts the tuna sandwich down and idly pokes it with her special weapon. She thinks about making a new special weapon but she likes the way the first one looks so much. Clarissa pokes the sandwich until it is unrecognizable as a sandwich. Clarissa is sitting on the couch in her living room.


He-Man and She-Ra [Princess of Power] are in bed together. She-Ra [Princess of Power] has been awake for thirty eight minutes and has been trying to wake He-Man up so He-Man will have sex with her. He-Man is awake too but he has his back to She-Ra [Princess of Power] and he is pretending to sleep. He-Man just doesn’t want to. It is too early and his back hurts from shoveling snow. She-Ra [Princess of Power] wraps her arms around He-Man and kisses his back. He-Man makes groaning sounds like he is still sleeping, and so not guilty of being an asshole. He-Man thinks, “maybe if I just turn around and exhale in her face, she will leave me alone.” He-Man forgot to brush his teeth again the night before. He is really worried about how much he keeps forgetting. When he was younger, if he forgot once, he panicked. But now he keeps forgetting. And he isn’t as concerned, except with how little he is concerned. Plus She-Ra [Princess of Power] brought this toothpaste over and it is bubble-gum flavored. He-Man doesn’t like that toothpaste can be bubble-gum flavored and he also doesn’t like the way it fizzes up right away. He doubts the efficacy of the toothpaste plus he always wants to swallow it right away and when he does his stomach really hurts. She-Ra [Princess of Power] reaches around and grabs He-Man’s leg then his groin which is painfully stretched over blood. He-Man thinks, “I am the master of the universe, why do I feel too shitty to fuck.” She-Ra [Princess of Power] senses his indifference. She gets up to make coffee. While she is gone, He-Man opens his eyes and stares at a pair of shoes on the ground by the bed. “I am a pussy,” he thinks. He listens to She-Ra [Princess of Power] move around in the kitchen. Eventually he gets up and puts on his underwear. His underwear has pictures of regular people on it. He goes to the kitchen and affects sleepiness. He rubs his head and squints and looks at She-Ra [Princess of Power] in her robe. He says, “man, I just woke up.” Then he looks at the ground and thinks, “I am a dumbass, why did I say that.” She-Ra [Princess of Power] hands him a cup of coffee and they sit on the couch together. He-Man is glad she made the coffee because when he makes something for her and she changes it, like adds more ingredients—in the case of the coffee more milk—he feels stupid and worthless. He-Man also feels stupid about his haircut and his outfit. She-Ra [Princess of Power] asks, “Can you take me to Target today, I have to get something.” He- Man says, “what?” even though he thinks he heard correctly. They are silent for a few minutes. After a few minutes, He-Man says, “what” again and She-Ra [Princess of Power] looks at him for exactly three seconds before turning back to her coffee. She gets up and goes to the bathroom and sits on the toilet with her robe still on. He-Man knows she doesn’t have to use the bathroom. He knows that she does that because the apartment is so small that she just needs to get away from him and not look at him. He-Man doesn’t want to fight anymore, especially since She-Ra [Princess of Power] upgraded from a Diamond Sword to a Neptunian Iron Sword. He-Man stands and stretches and then cleans some big curls of dust off their ceiling fan. He-Man sets the curls on the coffee table and shapes them into a swastika. Then he crumples the whole thing into a ball and throws it out. He thinks about throwing his coffee mug against the wall but he doesn’t. He pours the coffee out and leaves the apartment. He decides to walk in a straight line until he is very far away. He-Man does not like to wake up.




here is the cover for the BRADLEY SANDS IS A DICK anthology. i made it. bradley sands is a dick.


here is a new chapbook from publishing genius. it is a gchat between shane jones and me and a short play at the end. adam robinson from publishing genius used a drawing of mine for the cover. i think it looks nice.


finally, here is a picture of ludwig wittgenstein with bad acne looking at an oreo.



A man walks into a bathroom stall, in the backroom at work. His shift is over. He sits on the toilet with his pants still on and his winter coat still on. He reads an old newspaper he finds on the floor. He does the wordsearch. He finds every word. He sets the paper down and takes a gun out of his winter coat.

Man: I don’t want to pay attention to anything ever [looks at murky reflection on stall door] You are my only friend. But I am not attracted to you.

The light above him flickers and hums. He puts the gun against his head.

Man: Bang bang—you’re dead [points it at his chest] Bang bang.

“I Will Survive” plays over the p.a. speaker.

Man: I am a little pocket of air that unfolded into something disgusting. Bang bang. I hate every hair on my arms and every blink I make. I want to be a permanent blink.

The bathroom door swings open and the manager walks into the bathroom singing “I Will Survive”. He sings and washes his hands.

Man: [sitting still, whispering] Bang Bang. I will survive.

The manager leaves. The man clicks the gun a few times. It is not loaded.

Man: [clicking the gun] Bang Bang. I will survive.

Suddenly, the man decides he is happy and that everything is perfect. He walks home very slowly and smiles at a stop sign.



there was a problem with the cover for I AM GOING TO CLONE MYSELF THEN KILL THE CLONE AND EAT IT. here is the new cover. i am happy. the front and the back will be the same except for the color of the font.



i started reading blake butler's book SCORCH ATLAS. here is my initial review in the form of an equation:

little-kid+lsd+prurient album BLACK VASE on full blast+repeated punches to the face+an old man laughing and taking steroids and coloring his penis black with a magic marker= gottdang kid

you can order brandon scott gorrell's book.

i read an early version of this book. i read it without thinking "i want to stop reading this and i will stop reading this." i will probably read this book more than the average amount of times i read most books. give this hipster bitch your money or he will beat it out of you with his sarcasm.

you can order ellen kennedy's book.

i haven't read this but i like the bear parade book.

you can order THE BIRD ROOM by chris killen. i read an early version of this book. i think it is really good. "chris killen really poked my eye with this one." (that is my imaginary blurb).

chris killen tagged me again. here are seven more things and seven more tags:

1. today i bought some food and i was walking home and on the way home i saw a dog run into a parked car and then i heard a woman laughing and i looked at the laughing woman and she said, "you didn't see that." but i did see it.

2. last night i had a dream that i was having sex with a woman who had a giant tumor in her stomach and she died right before i came so when i came i was coming in a dead body. i don't know a lot of dream interpretation but that one probably means: "be a good person" or maybe "you are a weird asshole."

3. i used to be really good at math.

4. one time i woke up in a chair in my living room and i had my coat on and there was mud all over my hands and both of my hands hurt and when i looked at my hands there were thorns in both of them.

5. i have never felt emotion towards snow but every time it snows now i feel better even if it is only for a little while.

6. there is no one but me who can hurt me mentally or physically.

7. i have been drinking a lot of water lately. every time i get a glass, i drink half of it and then look at it and go "oh yeah." sometimes i just go "yeah."

i tag:

daniel bailey, seven times, once for each forty he has to drink between lists. that means daniel bailey has to drink 7 forties and write 49 things. ha ha asshole.

lastly, the motivational blog i write for is doing a commemorative job focus. give ma job and i will celebrate it. thank you.

here are two: