Monthly Archives: May 2014

It Tears You Up Inside, Pt. 2

They had told her that the pain would go away if she talked about it, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t want to burden others with her suffering. She wasn’t selfish like that. And even if she had been, she didn’t know how to articulate what she was feeling. Were there words for what was wrong with her? Had anyone ever felt the way that she did now?

There must have been other people like her at some point, she thought. Every person was unique, but the experience of being a person wasn’t. Sooner or later, everyone knew heartbreak. Everyone in time would come to know grief. Everyone would know pain.

There were diseases, she knew. Things of agony. Diptheria. Ebola. Dysentery. Tuberculosis. Things that killed. And she was not dying, even if it felt like it. She had the strength still to feed herself, to bathe herself, to dress herself, even if it was a struggle to find the will. Even if all she wanted to do was to sit on the floor, her knees tucked against her chest with her chin resting atop them, her arms wrapped tight around her legs. She had been that way for so long, she could remember no other. It seemed to her that she was a creature made to suffer and nothing else.

And then one day, one night, one moment, the same moment it had always been, she awoke and she knew that she had to speak what was inside her. She had to tell someone, or she would die.


It Tears You Up Inside, Pt. 1

She sat on the floor in the corner of her bedroom crying. It hurt. It hurt beyond imagining, a pain that had settled in the depths of her stomachs and made a nest there. Like wasps chewing up her organs, regurgitating and reassembling them within her. She was barely a person now, not a human being but a vessel for her pain.

Her friends had reached out to her at first, calling her and knocking on her apartment door. She’d answered them for as long as she was able, for as long as her strength had held out. She’d opened the door and smiled like an alien or a robot struggling to be human. They would offer to listen, but she had nothing to say. They would offer diagnoses and cures, but they were always wrong. They dispensed their advice, and when they found she had no response, they sat there in silence. When that grew unbearable, they found an excuse to leave. Some of them would place their hands over hers and smile weakly. “I know it hurts,” they would say, “but it it will get better. The pain will go away.”

But it hadn’t. It had only ever grown worse.

Untitled Poem (Finally another night)

Out late tonight, so here’s a poem I wrote last year upon receiving my first publication credit. This is the sort of thing that usually gets written at two in the morning and never leaves the Notes app on my phone, but you know how self-imposed deadlines and expectations are. Anyway, enjoy!

Finally another night where I feel like a fucking artist
Knowing I’m invincible
Drink in hand
Buzz in head
And the absolute certainty I can change the world in my heart

One more drink and you’ll feel good til you sleep
A few more words and you’ll live forever
Turn the music a little louder and it’ll cut through anything

Take these words to heart:
“You are nobody and you are nothing.
“But don’t let that stop you.”

Simulations on a Theme, Pt. 9

I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge and mourn the passing of Maya Angelou before I get to the post proper.



I should never have opened the door, asked the question. It is not there are some things better left unknown. It is that the knowing comes with a cost, and there are some costs that are too great for a man to pay.

I am not a great man. I am not a great woman. I am no great matter. I am an insect encased in a shell of meat, a cog discarded from a machine that doesn’t notice its absence.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

I should have been a peach tattooed on soft, fair skin. I should have been a scar earned through suffering and determination.

I should have been a square, a pixel, a polygon. The smallest indivisible unit of a larger whole, quiet and motionless and secure in my purpose.

I should have been.

And that’s “Simulations on a Theme!” Thank you for reading, and be here for something new tomorrow!

Simulations on a Theme, Pt. 8


Paul woke up as he did every morning, a scaly anteater tonguing his ear and whispering lurid promises of the filthy sex to come. He grumbled and rolled over, hoping the pangolin would get the hint and wander into the kitchen in search of ants or termites or Cheetos or whatever the hell.

For an aimless point of meat, Paul thought, the human brain sure can get used to anything. Things had been great when he’d first won the lottery. He’d been rich and famous, everything had been new, he’d been able to do whatever he wanted. The novelty of it all had made him a celebrity. America, nay the very world, would gather around their televisions, huddle in front of their computers, feverishly slaughter the family pets and consult their entrails just to see what strange creature he would give a limited form of sentience to next, what bizarre organism he would coax into accepting his penis.

It was great. Like being an anthropologist, a scientist, and a porn star all at once. He’d really won the lottery. Not even just the actual lottery, which he’d totally won, but the metaphorical lottery of life as well.

And then it’d all become boring. The models. The expensive dinners. The squealing human-pig hybrids. So boring, so mundane.

I’ve done everything I could think of. Everything. I’ve walked the surface of the moon. I’ve destroyed Las Vegas hotel rooms. I’m an EGOT winner. And I still wake up in the morning and wonder, “Christ. What the fuck am I going to do with myself today?”

The anteater ran its tongue along his neck, leaving a sticky, slimy trail, like being kissed by a slug. Paul pushed it away, ignoring its hiss, the unhappy grumble of a Thai transsexual, the squeaky noise of some dog toy that had been left on the ground.

Simulations on a Theme, Pt. 7


Peter awoke in his bed. Surrounded by beautiful women, by nubile men, by an especially attractive and talented genetically engineered pangolin. As he often did. As he had ever since he’d won the lottery.

He remembered that day well. It was the day he’d truly become happy. He’d given a press conference, because that was a thing you could do if you were rich enough. You could just call up some news station and say you were going to hold a press conference, and they were all happy because the twenty-four hour news cycle demands that people report on every last goddamn boring thing. Then you got to hold your press conference, and then instead of saying anything important or insightful, you could just cackle maniacally.

And then announce you were going to fuck an anteater. Just because you could.

No, you won’t be donating to charity. There will be only anteater fucking.

Yes, obviously there will be other humans involved. You don’t want it to get weird.

No, you don’t know where you’re going to get said anteater. But you just won an actual shitload of money. The science is no longer ahead of the funding.

Yes, a shitload is a real unit of measurement. And if it isn’t, you have enough money to bribe people until it is. It’ll be like a kilogram. There’ll be a mathematically perfect shitload somewhere in a bell jar with replica shitloads in countries all around the world. That way scientists will be able to consult it and say, “Oh, good. The feces in a jar is still there. Lovely.”

So that was life. Rich as hell, banging models and scaly things, and suddenly a regular topic of discussion in international media. It was great. Couldn’t be happier.

Nope. Couldn’t be happier. Totally happy. Perfectly happy.

Yep. Perfectly happy.

Perfectly happy.

Simulations on a Theme, Pt. 6


Mary awoke in her bed. Alone. As she always did. As she always had, for as far back as she could remember.

Okay. That was an exaggeration. She hadn’t always woken up alone, obviously. There’d been boyfriends, one-night stands, sleepovers as a kid, nights when she’d had too much to drink and fallen asleep snuggled up next to one of her girlfriends. But it had been too damn long since she’d woken up in bed with the sensation of another body pressed against her own, and she missed it. There was something pleasant about a physical presence, something soothing in a simple, animal way. A pack of wolves curled up together for warmth and security. Something like that.

Mary sighed as she pushed herself out of bed. It was hard being a physical creature, she thought. Things would be so much simpler if she were just a disembodied consciousness floating through the ether, a spirit, a program. Something that didn’t thirst and hunger and long.

Something that didn’t wake up grumpy at an hour that was unreasonably early and then have to go into a job it didn’t like so it could acquire imaginary money to buy the real goods that alleviated the hunger and the thirst.

Not the longing, though. Nothing fixed the longing.

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