Saturday, October 24, 2009

Oh Boo


i hope you realize how amazing you are, and that all those bitches that hate on you just be jealous


For realz son?


yeah! dey be bebopping and scottin around but tit ain't no thang


Oh boo

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Honey Bee

 Chapter I

Petey The Homo

An Introduction To The Sheer Ingenious of Fenton Niles


Baby, you’re a wildcat

And I am but an eskimo child

Baby, you’re the sharp cheese

And I’m at best only mild

We’re complete opposites

Like “before” and “after” smiles

But if you be my one true love,

My dick could go for miles.

- Slanteyed,

Root Canal


            He sits, waiting for me. He has been sitting in this coffee shop for an hour, his watch tells him. He checks his phone again. He checks his watch again. There’s a guy sitting alone at a table across the lobby. The guy smiles at Josh.

            “Date stand you up?” The man flashes a wide smile.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Fenton Niles: Heartbreak Avenger


Who The Hell Is Fenton Niles?

Fenton Niles: Heartbreak Avenger


I would love to love you

But just for tonight

I would love to hold you

But just for this one night

If I held you, Darling,

For more than this one night,

I would probably beat the hell out of you.

 - Rho Jitters,

“Just For This One Night”


            Now, please, don’t judge me solely by what you just read in the prologue. That wouldn’t be fair, it’s just an isolated story. I mean, it’s truthful, but it isn’t me. Sure, I did those things, but I just don’t break hearts for fun. I believe the heart is the most important part of the human experience, I believe that our capacity to love is the reason we were put on Earth.

            So, when people abuse other people’s love, I believe that to be the biggest crime one can commit. Breaking someone’s heart is worse than murder; instead of sending them down river towards the afterlife, you’re leaving them stranded in the here-and-now, lost without a compass.

            You’ve broken them.

            And imagine by dysphoria when I realized that my heart hasn’t just been broken once, it’s been broken seven times. Seven fucking times.

            Seven criminals, wandering out there. Love criminals. Heartbreakers.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Gay For Jesus


you're opening, you know that, right?


yeah ik


okay, wow, you are gonna be tired bro


why? i stay up till 2 almost everyday


whatever works dude


just need a cup of coffee and im gtg

yo i have stayed up til 3 before

i have had like 34 hr of sleep



shit dude




that's gotta suck



but i have been sleeping in since i had 2 days off

went to bed at 1 yesterday and got up at 10 30

me and my friend went to manchester mall bc he never been there at like 10p

it was awesom




came back to durham at like 12

hugout with a chick from school.....wick cool



that's cool

did you bang her?







its the second time i hae hungout wit her


fuck the shit out of her


i dont kow if she has a bf or not but i like her


tell her you want her on your dick. permanently.


my friend likes her too he thinks i should ask her out



you should

the worst she could do is say no


i probably will


and call the cops


yeah ik


for what?


and lie and say you accosted her

and then you get charged with assault

and let's be honest, they usually side with the woman


and this is good why?

u are something else


because you get to go to jail, and knowing you, you'll get passed around like currency

like you always wanted


hahaha ur gay


but yeah, ask her out, for reals


thats the only reason u would say something like that

but yeah i like her she is cool and cute


ha ha, yeah, gay for Jesus

that's good!




i g2g to bed

see ya



Wednesday, October 14, 2009



            Tatiana bumped in to a man she’d known before. She knew him from way back in high school and he was crazy about her, but she broke his heart. We’ll get into the details later, the point is, sheknew this fact. She knew that she had broken his heart.

            Now, the kid had been on the chubby side twelve years before, but now he was lean and handsome, wearing a nice suit. It took him a second to recognize Tatiana back, but she could tell when he did. She couldn’t believe how nice he looked; he was always a bit of a mess in high school.

            They stood in the middle of the supermarket and talked for a few minutes. He was in advertising, and apparently had some pretty big clients. She blushed as she admitted she was a cashier at the Walmart down the street. He smiled. “No harm in that, surely you have a man that takes care of you?”

            Immediately a man came to mind, a man she had been with as recently as the previous night, but she answered no.

            “Awe, that’s too bad. Hey, we should go out sometime–here’s my number.”

            She looked down at the card and smiled. She wrote her own down on a scrap of paper she found in her purse. He glanced at it, smirked, said goodbye and walked away. Tatiana felt her stomach do flip-flops.

            Over the next few days, the feeling continued. She called up her closest female friends as soon as she got home to tell them the story. Every single girl got the same story: Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Formerly fat high school dweeb returns as Prince Charming! Sweeps Princess Tatiana off her feet in supermarket! Extra! Extra!

            It took the man three days to call her, but she wasn’t upset. Turns out he had been in Los Angeles but was coming back to Boston to meet with a few people in a week. “Interested?” he asked her. “Yes!” she said, barely containing her excitement.

            The day came, and she looked stunning. A few of her girls had come over to help with her hair, and she spent money she didn’t have on a new dress.

            The date went marvelous. He spoke confidently, talked a lot but not too much, and genuinely seemed interested in everything she had to say. When the subject of sex came up, the look on his face changed. “I don’t want to move to fast, to be honest. I’m still kinda hurting from my last relationship, really. I just want to spend time with you, and you know, get re-acquainted.”

            Two hours later they were making out in his (very nice, very expensive) car.

            He flew to Chicago and she didn’t hear from him for another four days. She was starting to get worried when he called and asked if she was busy that night. She had become so desperate for human contact by that point that she had called up her ex, but she promptly canceled. They ate sushi and went walking through the park. They made out by an old fountain and he got under her shirt.

            And so it evolved this way: He would call her up out of the blue, treat her to an amazing evening, and disappear for a few days. Just when she started to lose hope, he would reappear, and she would be happy for the time being. This lasted for about a month...

            “Where do you go?” she asked out of the blue.

            “Hm-what?” he replied, mouth full of food.

            “Where do you go when you leave? You’re always in LA, or Chicago, or Seattle, or some big city. I feel like I don’t even know the real you. You just come and go like, like, like, like the weather!” It was at this precise moment, that she realized she felt strongly enough about this to cry.

            “Babe, I, uh,” he said, as her crying got louder, “no, babe, don’t.” People began to stare. The classical music faded out.

            “I feel like you’re using me!” she said, and shot up. She took off like a rocket, and he jumped up after her. She made it all the way to the lobby before he put his hand on her shoulder and spun her around.

            “Hun, what’s the matter?”

            “Don’t give me that! You know what the matter is! What are we?”

            He hesitated.

            She reiterated. “What are we, you better tell me right now, Fenton Niles.”

            Fenton looked at her and smiled. “I’m someone that is falling for you, and you are a beautiful girl that I’ve been treating poorly.”

            Things changed after that night. He started texting her from various places. Sending her pictures of all the cool things he’d see. He would call more often and they would have long conversations. She began to feel comfortable referring to him as her boyfriend, and her heart would always skip a beat when the phone rang.

            Finally, about two months after the incident, he came over. They drank wine, they laughed, they made out. Finally, he looked at her and said, “I’m ready.”

            They started on the couch. She had been waiting for this moment. He pulled off her top, and his hand shot right down to her pants. Those came off quickly. They stood up, making their way towards the bedroom. It’s like a movie, she thought. This is my Prince Charming. This is my Mr. Right.

            They had sex, and it was good. They stayed awake after, talking, and did it two more times before she drifted asleep in his arms. She fell asleep so very, very happy that night...

            When she awoke, he was gone. She was hurt, but she wasn’t completely surprised either. Something felt wrong, though.

            She walked into her livingroom. Something was off. She looked around, seeing if furniture had been moved. Nothing that she could see. Then she looked to the mantle, and it hit her. The flower he had given her on their second date was gone. Also, there was a framed picture of the two of them that was missing. She went to her jewelry drawer; a pair of earrings had disappeared. Every little trinket, every token of their young relationship was MIA.

            She called his phone, but the number was out of service. She googled his name but nothing relevant came up; just superficial information and pictures of different bands he had promoted. He didn’t have a Facebook or a MySpace profile. She realized that he had never told her his home address or the place he worked, or which of the big cities he was always flying off to was his home.

            She couldn’t think of anything else to do, so she cried. She cried and she shut down, her heart irreparably damaged.

            Just like she did to me. Her heart was broken just like mine was twelve years ago. Except, I had the last laugh.

            My name is Fenton Niles, and Tatiana was #2 on my list.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Kanye West On Jay Leno

Anybody else would have had their publicist make a statement and issue a half-assed apology, but Kanye appeared on TV and showed genuine regret. I still love him.

Friday, September 4, 2009

New Outlook

I took the summer off from posting here, but I think I'm ready to start being creative again. Expect more real soon, all you non-followers.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Matthew Drew: The Basement Sessions, Volume I

As you know, I have the tendency to gush about my brother's music.

It's because I genuinely, honestly, truly in my heart of hearts believe he's a decent songwriter and know he has the potential to be a downright great one in the future.

So, keep that in mind when you listen to this EP/demo/monstrocity. These songs have been recorded over the past few months, and they showcase his raw talent. If you listen to these songs intently, (after you get past the poor recording quality) you'll hear an interesting sound; the sound of Matthew growing as a musician. I do.

Sure, these eight songs are far from perfect; he doesn't always hit the right notes, he slurs words occasionally, kind of fucks the rhythm up sometimes and not all of the keyboard work is fantastic, but within each of these little song nuggets I'm giving you show one more step toward the amazing musician he will eventually become. All I ask is that you listen to the songs, then come back here and tell me exactly what you think of it. And be honest!

Also, Scotty is on four songs. He's getting better too. "The Beast" is my favorite Scotty singing song ever.

Matthew Drew: The Basement Sessions, Volume I

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

How Would You Describe Me?

This is interesting. Click here and pick five or six words that you think describe me.

You can do it anonymously, so don't be afraid to be a total cunt about it.

If you do it, start your own and let me know so I can pick a few words that describe you too.

Monday, April 27, 2009

John Mayer's New Girlfriend?

On AOL Entertainment News, I noticed this alarming article.

Apparently John Mayer has a new girlfriend and she's way below his league, or PopEater really can't find a decent picture to show.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Mr. Hart

This is a continuation of the The Pregnant Hooker story I started a couple days ago. It's pretty gritty.


Mr. Hart

“I never knew pregnant chicks could be so good.”

            “Shut the fuck up and finish. You have five minutes left.”

            He had been sneezing when he came in. Blowing his nose. She thought Oh great, I’m going to get sick on top of it all.

            He moans. He is not an attractive man.

            She sits on top. She gyrates back and forth. He has no clue of what to do. His nostrils flare open, he clenches his lips tight. He breathes in huge snarls, teeth grinding, air rushing up his nose and blowing back out. No snot. He finishes. His mouth hangs open, gargling.

            He calms down. She rolls off of him, and next to him on the bed. He looks at her, his ugly face lights up. She knows his face. She’s known it since she was a child. She leans away and stares out the window.

            “You were amazing.” He says, panting.

            “Thanks. You too. Now go.”

            “If I pay for another hour, will you talk to me?”

            “I would have to.”

            He thinks. “Would you want to?”

            “If you paid, yes I would.”

            “What if I didn’t pay?”

            “Then I’d suggest you leave.”

            He growls and rolls back over. He dresses. He pauses, pants halfway up his legs, shirt hangs unbuttoned, “If I paid for another hour, would you fuck me again?”

            “I’d be obligated.”

            “And if I didn’t-”

            “You know the fucking answer, Mr. Hart. Either pay or leave.”

            He hesitates. “Who is taking care of you, Maggie?”

            I am. Are you ready to go, Mr. Hart?”

            “I never thought I’d ever have sex with you.”

            “Thanks. Looks like our dreams finally came true. Bye.”

            “You know I switched schools just to be near you.”

            She rolls to look at him. She matches his gaze for thirty seconds.

            He continues, “You were always beautiful. I always knew we’d be compatible, you know, sexually. I just knew it.”

            Her face is frozen. She sits up, resting her back on the headboard.

            He has finished dressing. He looks nervous. “I fantasized about you every night, Margaret.”

            “It’s Maggie.”

            “That’s Classic You, Margaret. Always selling yourself short. You’re better than that. You’re better than all this.” He motions around the motel room.

            “Thanks, Mr. Hart. You can go now.”

            “How long have you been pregnant, Margaret?” He pulls the chair out from the desk, flips it around and sits down. His eyes are wide and serious.

            She tries her best to stay calm. Her left arm goes behind her back, as if to itch. She reaches under the pillow and grabs at her cell phone. She regrets not replacing her can of Mace.

            “How long has it been, honey?”

            Her mouth hangs open. “Ummmm... five months tomorrow, I believe.”

            “Well oh well. And the father?”

            “I, uh, I don’t know. I always use condoms and I’m on birth control. It could be anyone.”

            He shakes his head. “Poor girl. Always selling yourself short.”

            She feels the outline of the buttons. She struggles to remember the number.

            He goes on, “You know, when they kicked you out of school, I was your sole defender. I know it doesn’t matter much now but I fought the decision tooth and nail, believe you me. I, I, I loved you.” He breaks into a cry. He sobs in short gasps. He continues to speak, his voice both higher and grating, “I always did! And I just wanted what’s best for you, you need to trust me on this, Margaret. I saw so much potential in you, and I can’t bear to see it so wasted in this, in this shithole!” He wipes tears from his eyes. His face burns red.

            “I appreciate that, Mr. Hart. Are you sure you don’t want to leave now?” She has entered “Sos! Tis gyu is a psycoh” into her phone. She presses send. She hopes he gets it soon.

            “No, don’t push me away, Margaret! I refuse to be like everyone else! I can help you, I promise.”

            “I don’t need your he-”

            Don’t feed me that bullshit, Margaret! It’s obvious you’re in way over your head right now. You need help. I can take you in. I can give you a place to sleep, and purchase everything your child would ever need.”

            “That’s really not necessary, Mr. Hart.”

            “I don’t care, Margaret, muh, mah, Maggie. I would, Maggie. For you, I would.”

            The phone vibrates. She can’t see what it says. “Mr. Hart, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

            He jumps up and kicks the chair against the wall. “You’re stupid, Margaret, you’re a stupid cunt! You don’t even see what’s right in front of your fucking face, you stupid bitch!” He punches the mattress.

            Maggie starts to cry. He climbs back onto the bed, also crying.

            “Oh Maggie I’m so sorry! Come here, honey-pie!”

            Maggie screams, and kicks his face. He falls backward off the bed and hits his head on the desk.

            You stupid fucking bitch!” He screams, standing back up.

            The door busts open. “Get away from her right now, fuckwad.”

            The man in the doorway points a gun. Mr. Hart flies backward, raising his arms behind his head. “Uh uh are you a cop?”

            The man smiles. “Nope. But I’ll fucking shoot you if you don’t grab your shit and leave. ASAP.”

            Mr. Hart looks to Maggie. Tears stream down her face but she is too caught up in the moment to weep. He sobs. “Why, Maggie? Why?

            The man in the doorway whistles. “I’m over here, pal. I’m going to ask you to not address the lady.”

            “Fuck you!” yells Mr. Hart.

            “Good for me. Have you paid?” The man asks.

            Mr. Hart looks back at Maggie. He sobs. “Yuh-yuh-yes...”

            “Good for me as well. Now get the fuck out, asshole.”

            Mr. Hart looks to Maggie. “I would have treated you so good.”

            “Count of three, dude!” yells the man.

            “I would have paid for everything...”


            “... I would have held you at night...”


            “I WOULD HAVE RAISED YOUR CHILD!” Tears well up in Maggie’s eyes.


            Mr. Hart wipes his eyes. “Please, Maggie! Tell him to leave me alo-” BOOM! goes the man’s weapon.

            Mr. Hart hits the floor, feeling his body for blood. He pants heavily. He looks to the ceiling. Particles float down from a scorched hole. Mr. Hart looks back to the man.

            The man smiles. “The next one goes into your skull.”

            Mr. Hart scrambles across the floor, picking himself up near the doorway and rushing out. He brushes past the man, who watches him until he has entered his car and driven away.

            Maggie sits. Her pillow is on her lap, and she hugs it tight to her stomach. She looks at her phone. The message says “I’m outside rite now. Dont wry.

            David walks over and sits on the bed. “Rough night, doll?”

            Maggie breaks into tears. “Yeah,” she moans.

            “It’s all over now, babe. The motherfucker’s gone.”

            She snorts, and weeps some more. “Thank you.”

            He looks at her and smiles. “Thinking of quitting yet?”

            She wipes her eyes. “What else would I do?”

            He chuckles. “I don’t know, something legitimate? I would completely understand if you left. Especially tonight.

            “I’m being serious, Dave. I have nowhere else to go. And even if I got a good job it wouldn’t pay. Not like this.”

            He stares out the window. “I’m worried ‘bout ya, Mags.” He is the only one who calls her this.

            “I’m saving up, Dave. I have over three thousand already. I’ll stop when I’m closer to the delivery. I’ll get a job after that, I promise. Just let me do it until I’m ready. Until I have enough to get by. Please, Dave.”

            He looks at her. He sighs. “Okay, but take a couple off, babe. Promise me that, at least.”

            She smiles. “Promise.”


Twenty-four hours later. Her tongue runs up and down his member. Her lips apply pressure. She has no gag reflex.

            The lucky gentleman is drunk. He leans against a brick wall. He drifts in and out of consciousness. He laughs when he’s awake.

            He looks down and smiles, revealing yellow, rotted teeth. “Yer pretty good fer a preggo bitch!”

            She looks up in disgust, still working him. He comes hard, shooting it down her throat. She chokes for a moment. She spits out what she can cough up. The man pushes her over onto the cement, and stumbles toward the street. She stands up, hocking and spitting one more time.

            “You promised fifty. I want it now.”

            He smiles again, showing off his yellow graveyard. “Fresh out, hun, maybe next time.” He starts onto the street. He feels her rush behind him. He feels something sharp poke into his back.

            She whispers into his ear: “Listen, I’m in no fucking mood to be jerked around tonight. Either you pay me or I leave you to bleed to death in this alley. Decide now.”

            “Fuck!” He breaks into laughter. “You’re a nasty one, ain’t you bitch?” He pulls out three twenty dollar bills and throws them to the ground. “Keep tha change.” He hiccups. “Cunt.”

            She eases off and waits until he reaches a safe distance. She slips her knife into her inside coat pocket. She crouches, collects the money, and stuffs it into her jacket.



Wednesday, April 8, 2009

The Gardener by Stephen Dobyns

I recently purchased Stephen Dobyn's Cemetery Nights and there is one poem thus far that has just blown me away. It's called The Gardener. It's such a unique view of things. It's extremely inspiring.

The Gardener

by Stephen Dobyns

After the first astronauts reached heaven
the only god discovered in residence
retired to a little brick cottage
in the vicinity of Venus. He was not
unduly surprised. He had seen it coming
since Luther. Besides, what with the imminence
of nuclear war, his job was nearly over.
As soon as the fantastic had become
a commonplace, bus tours were organized
and once or twice a day the old fellow
would be trotted out from his reading of Dante
and asked to do a few tricks—lightning bolts,
water spouting from a rock, blood from a turnip.
A few of the remaining cherubim
would fly in figure eights and afterwards
sell apples from the famous orchard.
In the evening, the retired god would sometimes
receive a visit from his old friend the Devil.
They would smoke their pipes before the fire.
The Devil would stroke his whiskers and cover
his paws with his long furry tail. The mistake,
he was fond of saying, was to make them in
your image instead of mine. Perhaps, said
the ex-deity. He hated arguing. The mistake,
he had often thought, was to experiment
with animal life in the first place when
his particular talent was as a gardener.
How pleasant Eden had been in those early days
with its neat rows of cabbages and beets,
flowering quince, a hundred varieties of rose.
But of course he had needed insects and then
he made the birds, the red ones which he loved;
later came his experiments with smaller mammals—
squirrels and moles, a rabbit or two. When
the temptation had struck him to make something
really big, he had first conceived of it
as a kind of scarecrow to stand in the middle
of the garden and frighten off predators. What
voice had he listened to that convinced him
to give the creature his own face? No voice
but his own. It had amused him to make
a kind of living mirror, a little homunculus
that could learn a few of his lesser tricks.
And he had imagined sitting in the evening
with his friend the Devil watching the small
human creatures frolic in the grass. They would
be like children, good natured and always singing.
When had he realized his mistake? Perhaps
when he smiled down at the first and it
didn't smile back; when he reached down to help
it to its feet and it shrugged his hand aside.
Standing up, it hadn't walked on the paths marked
with white stones but on the flowers themselves.
It's lonely, God had said. So he made it a mate,
then watched them feed on each other's bodies,
bicker and fight and trample through his garden,
dissatisfied with everything and wanting to escape.
Naturally, he hadn't objected. Kicked out,
kicked out, who had spread such lies? Shaking
and banging the bars of the great gate, they had
begged him for the chance to make it on their own.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

What Does It Mean?


She is screaming at him. Through him. She’s pretty sure he isn’t real.

“What does it mean???” She screams again. It doesn’t register.

“What does it mean?” She screams a final third time, leans over and tugs on his dress, or robe, or whatever you call it. This tug finally registers. He looks down at her with his icy blue eyes. His pupils are wide, his skin is milk-white, and at that moment she decides he’s real, just not real in the natural sense. Somewhere, somehow, he exists, but not on her Earth and they definitely don’t share a plane of existence.

“Yes?” He asks, but she knows he knows what she wants from him. His gaze penetrates her worse than anything. Worse than any man ever could.

She is sitting, naked from the waist down, ass mushed on the cold hard rock. Blood leaks from her, flows down and pools three feet away. She contracts again, but right now his gaze is all that worries her.

“What... does... it... mean?” she moans.

He gives her a look she knows too well. A look she loathes. Pity. He pities her.

This is a dream, she decides, but this man is definitely real. Somewhere, somehow, he is definitely real.

“Shh, Margaret. They are listening.”

She contracts again, letting out a moan. “Who?”

“Them. They don’t want it born.”

“But why?”

He looks at her. The stare is angry, and it gives her chills. “What a stupid question, Margaret. What a very stupid question for you to ask.” He looks back out into the woods surrounding the temple.

She contracts again, and she starts to cry.

“Do you want them to find us?”

Tears are streaming down her cheeks. “I just want it out of me,” she moans.

He looks at her again, and bends down. He makes eye contact.

“The child will come out soon enough. Stop complaining.”

“But why me?” she sobs, startling him.

“Why not you? Why are we chosen, Margaret? Why is anyone chosen? If not you, someone else. Doesn’t matter how or why, just that it is. And it did. That’s the problem with you, Margaret, this has been a problem your entire life. Always wondering why and how instead of the all-important ‘What Do I Do Now?’ Let me clue you in, Margaret: that last question is pretty fucking important.” He stands back up, unsheathing his sword.

She contracts again, but she has stopped crying. Tears still roll down her face but she has lost the will to make sound. She just sits, bleeding onto the dirty stone floor, staring up at the ruins, gulping every ninety seconds as another contraction comes and goes. All she can hear is the sound of her own breathing.

Lucius paces around her, eyes darting to and fro. Rustling. His eyes dart. He slides his sword back down and reaches for the bow and arrow on his back. He pulls it around slowly and aims at the woods.

Margaret looks in the direction of his arrow and sees nothing but darkness. Then, a blur. Black rushing forward. A panther? Monster? Ping! The arrow catches it.

There’s more, she thinks, They’re rushing him, we’re fucked! Shadows converge. They swirl around the couple; the half-naked prostitute in labor and her foul-mouthed angel guardian. The shadows rush in. Lucius screaming, his pale skin glowing gold. All she sees is darkness.

And Maggie awakes in a sweat. Her bed is damp, not from piss, but from sweat.

She gets up and walks to the bathroom. Her head thumps. She kicks back two aspirin and hopes they do the trick. She considers her face in the mirror. Her eyes are red, tear-lines streak down her face. “What a fucking mess,” she says, but she doesn’t get mad at herself for saying it. She definitely has to agree.

She lays back down. She stares up at the ceiling. She feels her very pregnant stomach, rubs her hand over the bump, waits for a kick. They come, stronger than ever before. She wonders if the child sees her dreams. She wonders why her dreams don’t fade away anymore. She wonders if she’s normal. She wonders why she didn’t get it fixed when she had the chance.

“How are you going to support the fucking thing?” He asks.

“I don’t know. They have, like, government programs or whatever, I’ll just sign up for some of those probably.”

“I’m not gonna fucking help you.”

“Jesus Christ, Paul, you’ve made that clear.”

“It’s not my kid.”

“You certainly seem to think so.”

He gets mad. Very mad. He turns around and knocks the lamp into the wall. It doesn’t break. He walks over and stomps on it with his boot. It breaks.

“Mature, Paul. Very fucking mature.”

He turns to meet her. “We always use a rubber.”

“Ah-huh.” This response enrages him.

“You were on birth control!”


He punches the wall. “How the fuck could this happen?!

“I don’t know. Immaculate conception?”

He looks at her with hatred in his eyes. “Why the fuck are you so nonchalant?

“Because you’re totally overreacting. You don’t owe me shit, Paul. And it isn’t exactly like you’re the only guy I’ve been with. I happen to fuck guys for a living, if you’ve forgotten. I have a whole list of potential baby-daddies. You just happen to be on top, you know, because we’ve had sex more than once.”

He exhales and leans backward against the wall. “It’s just, you know, really fucking frightening learning your girlfriend is pregnant.”

“Well don’t worry about it.” She says this without the doubt she’s feeling inside. The words flow from her perfectly. All the fear and hatred and doubt are left deep within her, where they belong.

“You sure?”

No, of course she isn’t sure. But she’s going to lose him, she’s certain of that. She doesn’t let herself know she cares deeply about this. She doesn’t let herself realize this bothers her. She needs to be strong for herself now. Strong for her child. Paul doesn’t figure into her future. Paul isn’t the father, she knows that for certain.

“I’m sure.”

“You sure you’re sure?”

“One hundred and ten percent, babe.”

Paul relaxes and slides down the wall, sitting on the floor. He exhales again.

“I’ll pay for the lamp.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He stares at the shards of porcelain, the cheap wiring tangled inside. He looks back at her. “Are you going to switch professions anytime soon?”

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Happy Birthday To Me.

Happy Birthday To Me

by Cracker

I was having a good sleep
in my car
In the, parking lot of the
Showboat Casino hotel

I say, "I remember you
you drive like a PTA mother"
You brought me draft beer
in a plastic cup

I'm feeling thankful
for the small things, today
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things, today

Happy, Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you

Happy, Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah

I'm feeling thankful
for the small things, today
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things, today

I remember you
I crashed your wedding
With some, orange crepe paper
and some Halloween candy

A sometimes
I wish I were Catholic
I don't know why
I guess I'm happy to see your face
at a time like this

Happy, Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah

Happy, Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah

Happy Birthday baby, to me
Happy Birthday, to me
Happy Birthday, to me
Happy Birthday, to me

Wednesday, March 25, 2009




Phil steps out of the cab. The driver looks to him and says “What, you’re not paying?”

            Phil pauses, and thinks, He doesn’t have to pay. Let him go.

            The driver thinks back, What am I, fucking insane? Make him pay extra.

            Phil grunts. He turns and hands the man two twenty dollar bills and thinks Keep the change, asshole.

            Phil is now standing in the heart of Boston, the buildings reaching into space all around him. Ahead of him is a coffee shop, and he doesn’t need his Advantage to see his mother through the glass wall. She sees him and starts waving, Phil smiles and starts toward her. As he pushes through a large crowd, he gets quick thoughts-Buy groceries-Why’d she leave me?!-Am I gay?-U2 is gonna rock tonight-but does his best to keep them at bay. His mother can usually tell when he’s messing with other people’s thoughts, even without any enhanced brainpower.

            Phil and his mother have always had an odd relationship. She has never approved of the steps he’s taken, and has always seem to regard his Advantage with a sort of irritation, as if Phil could shut it off at will. In fact, as far back as Phil can remember, his mother has been referring to his abilities as “The Unfair Advantage.”

            “Ahh! The Amazing Phil Fox and his Unfair Advantage! I pity the child who befriends you unknowingly!” Phil remembers her saying after he had convinced another boy to give him his ice cream. This memory is patchy for Phil, as all memories are for him. Phil figures it just goes with the territory; he spends so much time concentrating on other people’s pasts that he has all but forgotten his own. Sometimes he will remember himself in someone else’s good memories (and bad memories, dreams, and nightmares.) His mind will do that copy/paste trick and Phil will live someone else’s life for a few minutes. The only memories Phil can trust are the memories regarding the Advantage, and even those come in flickering lately. It all comes in like a fading radio station, you get decent-sized chunks but after awhile everything gets absorbed and whitewashed by static.

            Phil’s father died when Phil was ten, and the saddest part is that he can barely remember anything about the man. He can remember how his father looked to a tee, he sees each graying hair and every wrinkle as perfectly as you see the creases on the back of your hand. But he has no recollection of any single conversation with his father, no memories of playing in the yard or building a tree fort. The pictures in his mother’s photo albums are alien to Phil; he can’t recall a single situation.

            His mother looks at him critically when he sits down. He sees a pain in her eyes, he tries to get at it but for one reason or another he can’t even get close to his mother’s mind. It’s like she has an electric fence surrounding her thoughts, controlled by a code that Phil has never been able to crack. He tries and feels a light shock run through his body.

            “Stop it.” She says.


            “You’re using your Advantage to try and read my thoughts.”

            “No I’m not.”

            “Yes you are. I can feel it.”

            Phil snorts. “How? It’s not like you have my, um, abilities.”

            His mother rolls her eyes. “Some normal people are just in tune with it. Like how you say Gary Grubsnag can tell when you do it to him.”

            Phil’s jaw drops. “When did I tell you that?”

            His mother leans back. “Last time? Every time? Jesus, Phil, what’s become of your memory lately?”

            Phil’s eyes dart around the room. He starts to stutter. “I dunno, I’ve been busy lately.”

            She shakes her head, and they order. They have weekly lunches, but Phil can never seem to recall what occurred the previous week. For this reason, the lunches seem to run together. They make small talk, Phil’s mother updates him on his seemingly endless roster of aunts, uncles, and cousins (all of which rarely seem to ring a bell.) He shares with her what he remembers of the previous week, usually descriptions of things he ate or stories he isn’t aware he stole from other people. On one occasion he told her soberly that he took a pregnancy test and it came out positive. She laughed an empty, frightened laugh.

            “I know who kidnaped the Emily girl.” Phil says, munching on his steak.

            “Oh you did now?” She responds. “Who was it? Was it you?”

            His eyes shoot from the (should I propose oh my god what if she says no I should wait until she finishes med school or should I propose right now?) couple dining three tables away to her face. “What?” he asks, appalled.

            By the look on her face, he can tell she’s joking with him. He relaxes a bit.

            “Okay, but seriously, who is it?”

            He takes an extra eighteen seconds to chomp his steak and swallow it. “A guy named Travis, err, I forgot his last name. He is a real psychopath. He has stolen a shitload of kids, from everywhere.” He looks at her face. “You passed him once, in a long hallway at Macy’s.”

            Phil sees this instance not because his mother remembers it, but because Travis does. He’s located Travis, on a sick day off from work, and Phil is currently going through Travis’ mind like a book. He knows Travis’ last name is Collins again, he knows that Emily’s remains are still in the apartment, and he knows that Gary Grubsnag isn’t even remotely close to catching Travis, despite the pretty big hint Phil provided.

            “Oh, I passed him, did I? How long ago?”

            “Years. But he remembered you. There was something about you that startled him. Something off about you. That’s all I got.”

            Phil’s mother cuts herself another piece of steak, grinding the knife into the plate. She pops the morsel into her mouth and chews loudly. The sound makes Phil uneasy.

            “That never happened, Phil.”

            “It did. I saw it.”

            “You didn’t see anything. You’re broken. You need help.”

            Phil responds by staring at her. You’re absolutely right. His hands moves instinctively to a small blue journal in his jacket’s inside pocket. The place where he writes notes, records of events that seem to evaporate upon arrival.

            Phil’s mother continues. “There is a place I want you to consider. It’s like a rehab, but for people with mental issues. If you’ll just let me take you there-”

            Phil recoils. “What in the hell? No!”

            She glares at him. “I’m not asking you to make any decisions right now, just to consider their services.”

            “And become a patient? Let them do tests on me? Electro-therapy and other shit?”

            “They could fix you!”

            “I’m not broken!” Phil doesn’t believe a word his mouth had just spoken, but the idea of moving into a facility is more terrifying than death or prison.

            “Oh, you’re not, huh?” Phil’s mother is glaring at him.

            “That’s right.”

            She stares at him. “What’s my name?”

            Phil looks offended. “What?”

            “What’s. My. Name. Come on Phil, answer me.”

            Phil mutters for several seconds, and finally his mother interrupts.

            “You know, you could be living a normal life right now. You could live without this problem, you really could, hon. Your memory is turning to shit. If you spend any more time in other people’s lives, you’re going to forget yours.”

            Phil has become visually irritated. “You don’t know what it’s like, Mom. It’s like... having an extra set of limbs, or having an extra sense. I couldn’t stop using my powers any more than you can go a day without your eyes. Or your hands.”

            “It’s simpler than you think, Phil. I’ve been doing research.”

            Phil doesn’t think she’s telling the truth. He tries to delve into her subconscious and see what is really going on -ZAP! He feels that all-too familiar shock.

            By the look on her face, Phil knows she knows what he just tried.

            “You’re truly hopeless, aren’t you?”

            Phil gets up silently and begins to walk away.

            “You always do this, Phil! You need to cut this out!”

            That’s funny, I don’t remember doing anything of the sort. I don’t remember ever speaking to you before today.


            Phil starts off. His mother stands up, making a scene. People around him start to gawk, and this makes Phil angry. He can feel it pulsate through his body. He clenches his hands into fists, and brings them up to his chest. Suddenly, he punches downward with both hands. All around the room, plates go flying, chairs fall over, people are knocked over and winded. By the look of Phil’s mother, you’d think a hurricane wind is pelting her.

            People all over the restaurant are screaming. Helena Fox marches forward, following her son out the door, but he’s disappeared into a yellow taxicab before she can grab him. She stands there, staring at the cab as it pulls away.

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