Untitled; 72 words

I’ve always found a light shade of summer freckle on a man to be an attractive feature. Pair that with an effortless baseball cap and I’m probably halfway to love. 

It’s as if I’ve formulated this notion that if you’re a freckled man, you’re an approachable man, you’re a good man; worthy of my planting a kiss on the impression the sun has left on you.

If only all that were true.

Social Experiment: how to get blocked by one person on every social media site

  1. trick a poor soul into giving you his number
  2. have some nice banter with him but don’t come off as too interested
  3. make plans with him
  4. suddenly switch to crazy bitch mode
  5. get your phone number blocked
  6. use his number to research him on the Google and find him on Facebook and then on all other social media websites you both use
  7. send him polite but condescending messages on each of his social media platforms. things like “good job”, “nice”, “classy”, and “asshole”.
  8. ok, maybe that last one is lacking the polite factor
  9. the message on Facebook should scare him the most, seeing as he’s now aware that you know his full name, date of birth, place of work, and what he did on june 5, 2011
  10. allow him to do damage control via Facebook messenger and try not to get too offended by his fear that he now has a real live crazy stalker person on his hands. your gig is just that believable
  11. play innocent
  12. confuse him
  13. watch as each and every one of his social media profiles seemingly disappears off the face of the earth


and there you have it. we’ve done the research for you so that you don’t have to but feel free to try your own methods. this is science after all.




It’s a Dead Beetle

The dead beetle’s shell had broken and expanded like wings. Maybe it was kind of beautiful. I doubted anyone else passing by the stairwell would think so. I watched as with each passing day it spread its wings further and further. It reminded me of the cheerio by the elevator that I had been nodding to every morning for months. I wondered how long it would be until the beetle spread it’s shell-wings and flew away. That day would somehow feel momentous. I would probably pause for a moment, think of how I should react, and them move on down the stairs without a conclusion. I never really know how to react when small momentous occasions I build up for no apparent reason actually come around.

I said farewell to the beetle and exited the building, greeted by the cold I didn’t really feel. All I felt was the breeze in my crotch area that reminded me that I wasn’t wearing any underwear. I was suddenly self conscious about what my butt looked like in my leggings without underwear on. It was a good thing I was only going next door, where my butt would be concealed by the couch I would be sitting on in the coffee shop. I was a bit ashamed that I was joining the culture of young adults sitting at coffee shops with their laptops open. I looked at the older man across the room who had nothing but his coffee cup on the table in front of him. He was observing us. We locked eyes in a way that was more dramatic in my head than it actually was in real life and then were cut off by some type-A college student who spoke in a billion octaves too high for an actual human who was asking him for the extra chair at his table. The study group was apparently thriving.

A girl sat down near me on the couch and opened her laptop. Her computer background said “fly” in big fancy letters across the screen. I thought that was dumb and cliche and looked down on her for being so generic. Then I kind of felt like crying because I was the numb kind of exhausted where you don’t really know who you are and if you ever really knew who you were or ever really existed in a sense that wasn’t so boringly generic. My iced coffee was sweating. It tasted like bourbon.

The Work Crush

It’s the work crush. The one who suddenly catches your eye as he walks out to lunch and into your heart. Had you noticed him before? Maybe not. Maybe you were too busy learning the responsibilities of your job to partake in such frivolity. But suddenly he’s all you think about during the moments you come up for air amid the day’s work.

It’s the work crush. The one you daydream about while pretending he doesn’t make an appearance in your night dreams as well. You tell your friends he’s just a work crush; an innocent kind of pastime who you would never even consider touching in your real life. In reality it’s probably not healthy to be as obsessed with a person as you are with your work crush.

It’s the work crush. The one who motivates you to actually put together an outfit instead of wearing an oversized sweatshirt and leggings for five days in a row. It’s the one who has you reconsidering what a waste of effort liquid eyeliner is.

And when the work crush approaches you with a work related matter, he’s the one who gets the most thorough and expansive response as you hold back your hyperventilation.

An Accident of Sorts

“Do you ever think about me?”She asked him
Although he wasn’t there
He was in that space in her mind
That mimicked her heart
She knew he hadn’t made it
Past the thorns
And the dragon
Up the long staircase
And into her cavern
But she felt like he had been there
An accident of sorts


It smelled like a cocktail of spoiled wine and cleaning solution. He took us to a place full of people who looked vaguely familiar; all moved at the same pace, all seemed to know one another. I tried to find his hand at the bar but was given a drink instead. I smiled, he nodded, we danced.

The first time we had kissed was while crossing the street that one night. He tasted like the beers we had sipped down the road. The gesture was loud in its daring nature, and I liked the sound it made into the quiet night. As the club sounds were being pumped into my ears, I wondered if I was hearing or being filled with the numb sound of nothing.

The cascading night soon swept us into the street. We held hands as the air welcomed us. There was a cellist with extraordinarily long fingers who played a tune that swept the silence off her feet. He pulled me closer. The symphony and warmth made me feel like my hope was being channeled in the right direction.

Home enveloped us. I laid there in satiated silence and felt his breath in the air around me. The moment collapsed when he let a wash of unnatural blue light into the room. My silent plea hadn’t been heard; he had checked his phone.

Gone to Market

Kind of want to go to sleep, kind of want to write the next great American novel in the shade of my dark room with my laptop on dim while my sister sleeps in the corner. It’s funny how life takes you to these disjointed places and you can’t help but narrate like you’re in some kind of independent film or something. There are also those times where you can’t help but diagnose yourself as some sort of unhinged bipolar because sometimes your mind is a completely blank hole and other times everything is playing out all at once in the thematic slideshow that is your life.

I was drinking coffee and eating toast this morning and now I’m standing on this writer’s doorstep in the Chicago cold selling him energy with an overenthusiastic Cuban. Thirty minutes ago I was at a bus stop in the same cold with said overenthusiastic Cuban as he told me that this part of the interview would show how, as an account manager, I would go door-to-door advertising energy for our client. Seven days ago I was shaking the CEO’s hand and being offered a second interview. Two days from now I’ll realize that the overenthusiastic Cuban never answered the text he asked me to send him about how the rest of the interview went. I decided not to take the job as I smelled the coffee emanating from the writer and stared at the tattoo peeking out of his tinted tee shirt. The tattoo was a word that I somehow couldn’t read, as my brain had turned to cotton.

Most of my life is a blank space that I have no recollection of. Life happened, I’m sure, and sometimes I pretend to vaguely remember some great thing that happened that time with that girl at that place because someone else remembers it and so wants me to share in the memory of that time we were together. I can do that. What I won’t share with that person is that thing that I do remember in that hallway with that boy being shoved into the wall by that other boy who I ended up living above, because no one really wants to remember that with the same excited tone. The new kids never really stuck together when we should have.

I googled the writer. I probably wasn’t supposed to remember his name, from a legal standpoint, because I wasn’t the one who was supposed to be looking at his electric and gas bills. Although, a name like Fredrick Swank isn’t easily forgotten; or so I would claim if need be. He definitely didn’t want us on his doorstep. I kept quiet, so maybe he didn’t mind me, but he sure minded the Cuban. When he would ask a question pertaining to the importance of our visit the Cuban would make it sound dire; he needed us. In reality, we were saving him a small fee that he would incur over the course of the one month he would be staying at that residence after the electric policy changed in May. Nothing was fully explained by the Cuban, which I realized was a good sales tactic; just rush right through and tell the customer as little as possible. In reality, I did forget Dr. Swank’s name but woke up the next morning with it on the tip of my tongue.

Twelve years ago my cat ran away. I couldn’t help but blame it on the name we had given him. Calling him Shoo-shoo was in essence telling him to go away, twice. He never made it to the pet cemetery we kept in the corner of our yard. The writer had to bury his mother and brother at a young age. He wrote stories about that.

“We all started at the bottom,” the dashing CEO said before I shook his hand for the last time.

“It’s a long story,” the pensive writer said in answer to the overenthusiastic Cuban asking him why he wasn’t going back to his teaching position at the University of Chicago. The energy form loaded on the Cuban’s tablet.