The homely nurses burp me awake as I profusely apologize for the mess—let’s attribute the indecency to a spell of jet lag—you’d cry too if you came into this world fag end up—give it to me straight and spare no detail: hot dog or hamburger?—and whaaat about that airplane food!—

I’ve gotten the gist, you may cut the hawser! I am all of twenty second old, I am no naïf—do you even know who my father is? Yes, very well, me neither. Could you fetch me a pint before I develop any kind of scruples? Please, doctor, we haven’t much time!

Well, I’ve conquered the monolith, so what else is there to be done? See the binmen sewing the spread-eagled slag back together. Such a pity—I was beginning to like that place. If they dare rearrange the curtains, I’ll simply have a fit.

He comes over that night. We take turns drinking his Goo Be Gone, a gallon of green window grime solvent. He says it’s good for thinking outside of the box. And for minty fresh breath. He tells me he’s actually God. He tells me that he’s actually God and he just named himself Guy so no one would suspect a thing. I tell him that’s really smart. I tell him I wouldn’t have thought of that. He kisses me and smacks my right breast. His spit tastes like bath water. I tell him I’m nervous because I’ve never fucked God before so I don’t know if it’ll fit. He says that’s a common misconception—we fuck and it fits like a glove. Afterward, I ask Him if that was incest since He made me. He says no. He says that He didn’t make me, He just loves me and getting those two confused has done irreparable damage to His reputation.

He starts with the sponged stick, lathering the glass, making vast sweeping and spherical movements. All so trained and meticulous, each rounded swipe a perfect replica of the last. The squeegee technique is a bit harder to describe. He comes at the soap from all angles, sort of circling in, until He reaches the center, then drags downward, and smiles, smugly, first to the glass, then to me. God works outside the same building as I do. I stand by the revolving door every day and tell people, “One at a time, please,” since people like going in two at a time. Guy cleans the doors I stand by every morning. Sometimes He asks me what perfume I’m wearing and I tell Him nothing. Sometimes I stare at His butt crack and imagine I’m one of the little bits of rolled-up toilet paper caught in His ass hair.

God texts me asking if I’m up and I say ugh, yes, God, I’m up, what do you want? God says He wants to sext. I ask if that’s blasphemy. He says that’s a fake concept made up by prudes. He says that God famously loves sexting, curse words, irreverence, etc. I say okay and send Him a list of all the things I’d do to his penis and balls if He were in the same room as me right now. He says He is in the same room as me right now, that’s how God works. I tell him oh, yeah, I forgot and then I suck His dick and massage His balls. He ejaculates and tells me to swallow, saying it’s the holy equivalent of the blood of Christ. I swallow and ask whether it is really. He says no, that was obviously a joke—obviously. God likes to have a little fun.

God licks the dirty glass, from sill to head jamb, then drags his towel downward, carefully coursing the spit path. I ask him if this is a God-thing or a sex-thing or what. He says He ran out of Goo Be Gone and this is the next best method. The doors are now spinning at the speed of light, His saliva producing both a solvent and a highly effective lubricant for the carousel. A beautiful woman comes up to us and I tell her “One at a time, please.” She laughs at my misspeaking and when God sees how beautiful she is, God laughs with her. I ask God what brand of toilet paper He uses in front of the beautiful woman. God says I don’t know, why would you ask that? I say no reason and the beautiful woman walks forward and her beautiful body gets crushed and flattened and shredded by the swirling winged axis. Each of her red stringy limbs settle in a different drum and I tell God that His girlfriend is a fucking idiot.

I drink the rest of the Goo Be Gone that I stole while I take my bath. I ask God if He’ll eat me out after remembering what greatness His tongue was capable of. God is silent so instead I pray for God to eat me out. God sighs and says it’s not cool to abuse my power like that. He says He shouldn’t reward my bad behavior and isn’t really in the mood anyway. He scratches His asshole. I turn my faucet hotter. He says He thinks I should go back to calling him Guy. I say that’s fine, what’s in a name anyway? He sniffs his fingers and says: Obviously, a lot.

Words with unknown origin are beautiful, like an orphan, I frowned when you told me this, and you reminded me, “Not everything is about you. It’s all about the orphans.”

While you were busy thinking, the world ended last week: Oceans sank, women slayed their children, men raped the sewers. In the green haze, I wasn’t sure where to find you. I’d rather not look any longer.

Never question a woman, because what if she’s wrong? I am famously amazing at things that don’t come easy to me.

I find myself dating mean men often because I think empathy is fabulous. It has nothing to do with my low self-esteem as headlines would suggest, but of course, the lady doth armrest—

There’s something about the right-now of it all that’s unintelligible. The present is not a check for me to sign, but, hey, let’s get another round! Sometimes my teeth have a heartbeat and my ears sound like the moon’s calling. That’s the only time worth being afraid, when your teeth have a heartbeat, but I’m pretty mellow. I accidentally drank too much and now I have a family of four and a web blog. Men love when I eat with my mouth open because it reminds them of mother’s womb! Okay, if your teeth have a heartbeat, here’s what you do—

I’m accidentally really old now. I don’t know how that happened and I hope someone invents a way to fix it before things get really out of hand.

This is called a fable.

I’m going to bed

I’m going to bed

We were born on the same day. That’s how birth works.

There’s nothing on the back of my head

She held me and cried because if you can hold it, it’s not really yours. If you can see it, it was never really anyone’s. I’ve been preparing for something I don’t know the name of my whole life. I should be ready any day now. A name is such a torturous thing to be burdened with. You should be thanking me when I don’t call you. There shouldn’t be two darknesses of the day, but it’s pointless arguing with a woman. I’ve been changed so entirely, I ended up back at myself. You can lead a horse’s mouth to water, but you can’t make him accept the gift. You can lead me to a horse’s mouth, but you can’t expect me to find my way back. But tell me to forget the destination, and I’ll stay unsatisfied for a lifetime.

There’s nothing on the back of my head

Don’t tell me there’s something on the back of my head.

I’m going to bed now

I’m being a lovely girl today

I’m being a lovely girl today

If you regard everything as a metaphor, there’s no need trying to understand it all any longer. Silver dollars caked in whipping cream. Teeth nestled around a monkey bar, ribbons of milk, fast cars and other things that shall pass. I only have these images because you thought of them first—everything is given, not made. I’m talking still, but don’t worry, you’ll get your chance to make me feel bad again. I’d like to be angrier than any death that man can think up, and if you keep laughing, I just might. But tomorrow could have never happened, and I’d still go to bed on time. I’ve done so much wrong. I do so much wrong. Why can’t it just be one or the other? Men speak of horses as if they, too, were born to run. David, do you remember the dots of your father’s eyes? No need to answer, no question is worth an answer. You like to rhyme, as if that makes what you say okay. And it does. God, does it.

I woke up mourning,

Now my hair’s a mess.

He tries talking to me about the Coca-Cola labor uprisings in Guatemala, but I tell him I much prefer Pepsi in the warmer months. It goes silent so I ask if he knows the Butcher of Zacapa and he reminds me that he’s recently gone vegan. I tell him he’s right: let’s talk about nice things why don’t we?

After sex and sermon, we’ve fulfilled our requirements, so I show him to the door. We both know he knows what a door looks like. Everyone knows what a door looks like. That’s not the issue.

As all the greats before us, we take a shot at urolagnia—linguistically, at least. I describe just how badly my bladder yearns for relief, how yellow and glossy that damn toilet bowl will shine any second now, and then liken my imminent stream to a super bazooka. He jizzes on my face before I can dive into the olfactory. An ex machina waits for no one.

He tells me that schools are fundamentally bad at teaching patterns. They only teach transitory facts because this makes for dull and humble servants. He reminds me to never be a fucking humble servant, okay? I nod and I tell him I’m trying to love the me in you, but it may be buried too deep. I’ll fashion a growth in the shape of me in the meantime. See how that works out.

After talking and then talking, we’ve fulfilled most of our requirements, so I draw the shape of a door in his palm. He catches on a little too quickly for my liking.

His bush tickles my nose like the plush fur of a molding onion. He asks if I’ve heard of The Great Bovine Pestilence. I ask if that’s a new nickname for his nether region and when he doesn’t laugh I diagnose myself with foot-in-my-mouth disease. He tells me that animal abuse is no laughing matter and pushes the base of my skull until I taste hot chutney.

He tries getting me off ’cause he’s a selfish bastard. He moves through the world like a Dupuytren’s-gripped rummy attempting a Brioche stitch. He asks if I dream of a nuclear family and I tell him I resent any form of mass destruction. Besides, every animal is sad after sex, except for the one in love—they’re angry, of course! I don’t say this last sentence out loud, instead I howl in existential horror. He prides himself on his dexterity and asks same time next week? I tell him sure. Sure. Any day now.

consider becoming a paying subscriber because I need money. or pre-order my book. but do one of the two. you have to do one of the two. you have to do

It Feels So Good To Be A Victim is a collection of short stories that explore parasocial relationships, rape politics, marital ennui, mental illness, and more.

And a little bit from my author’s note:

“This book is for fangirls and fat old sex workers. This book is for grieving mothers and autistic sons. This book is for that one person who slept with everyone at the SLAA meeting. This book is for functioning alcoholics and cigarette chain-smokers and adult women with self-harm scars. This book is for the Instagram influencer as well as the man who pays the Instagram influencer for pictures of her feet. This book is for everyone who knows that a soul is not a finite destination, but keeps on looking anyway.”

It’s twenty-three stories. A good chunk, let’s be honest, most have been on Substack at one point (not anymore), but they have been heavily edited, so you’ll still really, really, really want to buy this book. There are also at least five stories that have never been seen before… Ooooh…

My absolute favorite stories are “Scout’s Blessing” and “The Extra,” and neither of them has been published on Substack, so you have to read them and tell me if you love them too.

And if you’re a recent Substack subscriber, say, the last year or so, there’s a very good chance that you haven’t read any of my short stories, so it’ll be brand new for you. Isn’t that nice?

Thank you, everybody. Specific shoutout to my paying subscribers. To give me money, therefore taking it away from yourself, is an incredibly generous thing… I’m going to tear up…. Fuck…. I love money so fucking much..….. I love you……..

And huge thank you to my publisher Jonathan Blake Fostar of Dream Boy Book Club and editor Lili Kouzehkanani. You guys are an absolute dream and made this. Thank you thank you thank you.

Soft cover. 298 pages. This ain’t your grammy’s bingo night! Is that the saying? LINK AGAIN: https://www.dreamboybook.club/shop/p/victim

Anyway, back to regularly scheduled programming—

xxx

He buys me cupcakes and shoes and rivers because he has nothing better to do and should probably just murder his body. I laugh maniacally and smush the icing into his nose and throw the Cuban heel against the current. He cries pink tears and asks me why I just did that and I tell him if he asks me that question one more goddamn time—

He knocks on the door as I’m taking a big fat shit on the toilet so I tell him I’m having sex with his brother in here. He asks if I need anything, like protection or mood lighting or snacks, and I say no thanks, MOM! He slips a note under the door with a bunch of heart-dotted i’s and I dryly wipe my ass and don’t flush.

He tries getting me off as an apology because everything has to be about him all of the time. But then it starts to feel good so I tell him if you stop, I’ll fucking kill you, I will. I’m not kidding, I’m not joking around here. He says we’re the best couple he knows. I imagine a gluttonous sturgeon feeding on the rotting leather and cum for one million years.

My parents simply got in the way when trying to make me, and honestly, much of what they did was wholly and orally unnecessary. If men believed what they told us, then Genghis Khan would be first remembered for his flowery excess of kin. The rooms grew wet and sore so I bounced out with two left feet and a handful of butterfingers. The doctors couldn’t tell if I was shit or afterbirth or what. I rested my oily palm on their collective cheek and asked for a light, old boy-o.

But, officer, she only committed the crime to ask for sweet pardon—forgiveness is ze most exotic drug! After contracting streptococcus as a child, Andy Warhol suffered from an incurable infatuation with canned soup products for the remainder of his life. Valerie Solanas was a butch lesbian. The jury will kill both close enough in time so their souls may reenact that classic love story in the afterlife. Jesus will happily reprise his role of seconda donna in pearls and clip-ons.

The pathos behind Pasolini concerns empathy for the only unmolested schoolboy in the church choir. That boy will age into holy child of Ann-Margret, curly-headed mute with abs of steel. Every auteur’s a hero until you discover their pornsearch history—and then they’re a legend! I have no more patience for dumb grief, so I tell Sally to stop the tape here. God is disappointed to learn that opera is not categorized in innings, but wants it known that he’s proud of his son nonetheless.

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And once he was good and ready, I told him a story about love.

When the poets came to town, everyone was sorely displeased.

It was a girl and a boy and the air of space they always kept between, just in case their ideas needed the room. Spring was coming, or, more accurately, spring was patiently awaiting their arrival, thumbs twiddling, saliva oozing. The poets were heading north in search of nowhere at all. They were intent on finding the greatest nowhere there ever was. And they believed that if they kept walking in a straight line, they were bound to find what they were searching for, once they had passed it a few times first, of course.

There came a land that the poets did not recognize on their fourth or fifth round. The sign said Welcome to Mayorsville. The poets tipped their figurative hats and continued walking forward. Black buildings and beige roads. Blue trees and green lakes. Red skies and pink suns. The poets did not use these words. The poets used words like “painite” and “popliteal.” We can only hate the poets for this.

A beautiful woman passed. The girl poet asked the beautiful woman who exactly was in charge of this place. The woman was burping her newborn child close to her chest, and in between burps, she told the girl poet, she said, “Well, everyone is in charge here. Everyone is the mayor in Mayorsville.” The girl poet laughed, and so did the boy poet. To think: they laughed at the mayor! The mother rolled her eyes so hard they nearly fell out of her head and quickly added, “And before you even ask: Yes, the children, too.” The poets looked horrified, but then the small mayor puked white and green down the tall mayor’s back, and the poets admittedly felt better after that. The girl poet curtsied and the boy poet saluted, and they continued to walk forward.

The poets befriended every passerby. They asked the mayors questions like “Is there such a thing as too much love?” and “What was your first experience with death like?” It was always a nice surprise when one of the mayors actually answered, but no one in Mayorsville really cared for them or their nonsense questions. The barber didn’t like the poets, for the poets likened hair to flesh. The butcher didn’t like the poets, for the poets likened meat to flesh. The doctor didn’t like the poets, for the poets likened flesh back to words. The citizens of Mayorsville had never before been forced to think about their flesh so much. After their initial disgust, they began to wonder what else was flesh in disguise.

Weeks passed and eventually spring had sufficiently come all over the bosom of Mayorsville: birds rapping, flowers singing, bees fucking. The poets had grown nicely accustomed to Mayorsville, and the citizens had grown to tolerate the poets. The poets’ questions were somewhat interesting, yes, but, of course, they were poor and lazy and greedy for hand-outs, which proved a subtle burden on the town. But they accepted them entirely, as any good mayor would. On a hot red May election day, every citizen was called to the heart of the town to be awarded a medal and a cartoonishly large pair of scissors. Babies crying, trumpets blaring, and a big, bright yellow ribbon holding the town together like a present. It was only the most fantastic holiday of the year. The poets were confused. Unhappy. They refused the mirrors, the shears.

“But you’re citizens of Mayorsville. That makes you mayors!” screamed a fat mayor as he bit onto the gold noosed around his neck.

The poets hadn’t caught wind of the clouded threat of permanence looming over them. They were too busy taking what was given to them to ever question the consequences. They forgot that seeing others required a pair of eyes outside of their own and that standing in one place, a hopeful heart. The poets never did stomach responsibility very well.

“We cannot accept this offer,” the girl poet began.

“It is not an offer, but an inevitability! An exact truth!” screamed the beautiful mother, the one from the beginning, if you remember. Her child was standing next to her. He was now as old as the poets, clad in a suit and tie, smoking a cigar and thumbing through The Symposium. One day, he would find himself in the throes of a similar journey.

For the first time in their lives, the poets knew what they had to do. For the first time in their lives, the poets considered the happiness of people who weren’t themselves. Yes, they would miss the black buildings and the green lakes. The small mayors, the tall mayors, the surplus of flesh and new, open ears. The greatest nowhere there ever was. At the same exact time, all the mayors cut the big, bright yellow ribbon and loudly rejoiced at their equalness. Everyone was so happy to have won.

“I don’t think we’d have much to think about in a place like this,” the boy poet said.

“Thinking is for nimwits!” exclaimed a short mayor amongst the exuberant glee. After some thought, the poets nodded their heads in agreement. They bowed in respect and walked backwards into the tongue-pink sun. Summer introduced itself with a feeble handshake and the newborn poetless town was all the better for it.

Once I finished telling the story he said Are you finished telling the story and I said I think so. He wiped away his tears and snot into his beer and then drank the whole pint. I asked him What did you think. He looked at the space above my head, searching for the third hottest girl in the bar. He said I don’t know I couldn’t really hear you since everyone is still laughing. I had forgotten to tell them to stop.

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Time travel is real but everyone is just too afraid to admit that they were the first to discover it, even though they were. I was meant to be a daughter, above it all, despite everything, I was meant to earn the blessings of daughterhood. God fought nail and tooth so I could have that one. And what have I done for him since? That’s exactly what I’d use time travel for if you’re curious. I knew a man once who did not have the faintest clue what it meant to be a daughter, and I adored him for it. He said I heard somewhere that eating an orange in the shower is really good for your mental health. I really did not care about this theory and I definitely didn’t catch wind of the implications so I just said Oh, okay, I’ll have to try that. And then he looked at me with what was clearly a Without me? kind of expression so I said Oh, well, we should try that and then he smiled and kind of laughed like Good answer. For a second, I thought it was so cool that love could feel like this without doing much at all. He broke things off a few days later because he wasn’t ready for something serious even though I never said I wanted something serious, I just heavily implied it. We never got to try the orange thing, which is fine with me, really is. It’s like when you’re a kid, and you think that true north is whatever lies in front of you. But just because you’re walking forward doesn’t mean you’re necessarily going north. It’s just like that.

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He told me he’s already heard that joke before and then I sobbed so hard that I dry-heaved. It was the worst break-up of my life. The security guard at work said Why do you look tired and I said I think because I’m tired. But it could be something else. I don’t know if my God exists yet. That’s what I tell the girl at the CVS and then she says Okay, that’s fine, but my register isn’t working so you’re going to have to use the self-checkout. I say Okay, that’s fine and then I steal the box of tampons. When I get home, I remember I smell bad. Now I’m lugging around this bag of laundry like it’s a dead body. Because it is a dead body

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