The Monday

This will be like today. The rain will fall heavily, but you'll be stuck inside, totally sheltered and disgustingly dry. At your work desk, you'll be in two minds —your Weather Eroded Small Pyramid Mind, and your Spherical Semi-Shaded Mind. They will talk to each other through an invisibly hung studio microphone, and this will confuse you, party because you are not in a studio, but mostly because it's invisible and you can see inside of your skull. Also, somewhere around you will be grey carpet, but you won’t care so much about that. 

Illustration by Roberta Cicerone.

The Old Man

A Short Story

Yesterday, I awoke in a drunken haze to find a creepy old man lying on top of me, dripping his toupee adhesive onto my left cheek. Trapped under this bulging, bolder of pedophilia, I began to spit and gurgle violently in his direction in the hopes that it might reach his hearing aid and electrocute him, or worst-case scenario, he’d just slip and fall-off. Seemingly aroused by my spurting fountain of disgust, he threw his tiny, de-formed, T-Rex hands up behind his head and let-out a loud “Yeeessssss”. But then he had a massive coronary and died. So I just called his wife and asked her to come and pick him up. 

Ant Not Sorry He Stole Tea-Towel

The Old Lady

A fucking short story


A while ago, I noticed a little old lady sitting in a stairwell. She didn't bother anyone necessarily. She'd just sit there, basking in her pained-expression... caressing her dirty left foot... flicking various unwanted toe-crack related materials onto the ground. Obviously we never spoke. I would just climb over her, clutching my belongings, staring intensely at some ambiguous point ahead. Till one day she strategically placed her slipper on the stair, so that I fell, and ruptured several crucial tendons in my ankles, rendering me completely immobile and disgustingly desperate. These days we chill-out on the stairs together, massaging each others feet and screeching harmoniously at passers-by...completely content in our gauntlet of judgement.

Identifying a Sensitive New Age Troll

Some are self-explanatory.

Please braid my hair 

Some will wipe their sludge all over you, dare you try and escape.

Ragh?

Others will trap you in their labyrinth of fragility. Frequently throwing razor-blade parties and drafting suicide notes amidst a sea of bleeding, like-minded Sensitive New Age Troll pity-pals.

I want to violently weep on your chest when we make love, Lauren. 

Judging a Book by it's Phone Voice

Disclaimer: The above image is not Brad Sayers. However, I'm sure he'd look somewhat similar...judging by his low, guttural phone growl.