Stories in which people get their just deserts are poison, stories of disproportionate punishment are autobio- or pornography, & stories of undeserved reward will comfort people you dislike. As such, ambitious authors must avoid acknowledging any mechanism of consequences at all.
If you were *really* my nemesis you'd memorize the 2 items on my Discogs wantlist, hunt them down relentlessly, then burn them while taking tens of Polaroids which you'd mail to me one by one.
Which'd be fine–they're just tapes. You could tearfully apologize for that later on.
As an inveterate bruise-poker I've obviously been trying to replicate the constellation of thoughts that took me out, but I'm only managing to make myself queasy. Seems like I don't actually have an internal (very) hard reset button.
Wrote one of my names into a crossword grid. Thought of a viscerally intolerable motion through skin and fainted, pissing myself & snapping a shelf on my way to the tiles. Returned to the puzzle and immediately saw that I'd placed my name erroneously.
Recent conversations with strangers have reminded me that by metrics purely focusing on variety & frequency of fruit consumption I've had a notably excellent life.
Not any more, I guess.
Guess it's silly of me to putting any work into customizing a knife when I could just buy this.
Bureau reassigns trademarks derived from vibrissal patterns cultivated across a myriad of nippy muzzles in regionally distinct vulpiaries to the foxes themselves.
Pretty sure somebody walking by just said, "Classic Philadelphia dick quandary," real ruefully.
An implausibly clean-edged gap in my memory. A perfect ████████ of 2 to 10 minutes, hard cuts with the sequence either side grueling but intact. A polished oval of hematite in my mouth with something dead in its core.
If you mean to say several things, why not try squeezing & shifting them against your palate with your tongue until they compress into a dense, insoluble cube which you can allow to tumble past your lips and skitter across the dinner table like an illegible die.
For a bit I was involved in collecting & analyzing the grammar & vocabulary of Maay Maay, and I felt whatever numb echo of pride I was capable of about that work. Why, besides having been praised for it? I ask "Whom am I digesting for whom?" about basically everything I say now.
I started sharing my music folder on Soulseek again, and the demographics of who's downloading from me seem to lean predictably old & surprisingly lesbian. Significant demand for Team Dresch b-sides and, like, Indigo Girls bootlegs I downloaded over 56k as a kid in 1999. Neat.
Weighted blankets are restful because they safely, reversibly simulate being a corpse buried by a great number of small stones.
Nagging vision of a shirt reading
Cling to me ⛰️
under a Cairn ®
in the format of the old "Virginia is for Lovers" logo.
An allergic reaction raised hives on my hands & forearms which, several days healed, now resemble the age spots my mother's family is prone to. You know I've held my precociously elderly hand up to my mulishly youthful face in the mirror to feel the temporal shearing tug at me.
On a ten-point scale rating the degree to which a given portrait was commissioned with pornographic intent, there's simply no way Arcimboldo's Vertumnus is below seven.
I want to chew on something that writhes and glitters.
Register swerves, confusions of scale.
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