Short stories; some connected, some not.
I can’t remember when I stopped banging my head against a wall. Probably when I turned 6 or 7 and words finally dropped from my mouth like worms. We watched them, my parents and I, as they wriggled free on the carpet.
It took even longer to grow out the hole in my head.
Continue readingI want to extend an offer.
A happy birthday to anyone celebrating their birthday in the current calendar year, along with any future calendar years*.
While the jury is still out on you as a person, life is full of things, and I’m inspired every day seeing you do those things, if you do them, which you may not. I mean, it’s up to you. Maybe you think the land of the living is colourless. I’m not gonna sit here and berate your choices – that’s for strangers on the internet to do!
Anyway, why throw away all of that stuff we’ve done or not done, that meant everything or nothing?
Happy birthday, person.
*This offer is valid up to – and including – the moment of complete brain death.
big thanks to my pal Kyle for drawing the above photo of Reagan. they didn’t have to. yeah, I made some threats, and yeah i clambered half dead from a novelty birthday cake on their behalf, but they didn’t have to. i’d have done those things anyway. Kyle is a rad illustrator, hates cops, makes comics, and is just about the finest musician I know. they currently play in the gorgeous All Cats Are Beautiful (ACAB) and previously played in He Was Eaten By Owls. they wants you to message them asking where the fuck Sunny Browne, their beautiful hand-drawn comic about a non-binary furry detective, is. thanks, Kyle!
They say that in the final years of his presidency, with a very particular form of despondent sadness enveloping him, Ronald Reagan spent his last days in the White House entering any room with a TV and masturbating to the point of climax onto the screen. Continue reading
It had been five years or six years, neither of them could remember which. Continue reading
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When Keith Vaz texts me out of the blue requesting that I bring poppers to his flat, my first thought is always, “why is Keith Vaz texting me?”
YELLA HOLES - 