I’m a writer and visual fartist. My hobbies include misinforming children and art. I wrote Dahlia Season (Manic D), Wish You Were Me (Future Tense), the Eli Coppola Memorial Chapbook “Sweatsuits of the Damned,” and Painting Their Portraits in Winter (Manic D). My writing has appeared at KCET, TIME, and The Rumpus. My art has appeared in public restrooms and museums. My email address appears below. Please send money.

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  1. Hello! I’ve been following your blog for a while now and finally got the courage to go ahead and give you a shout out from Kingwood Texas! Just wanted to mention keep up the good work! 302391

  2. I think I just fell in lurve with your blog. I hope that’s not a creepy thing to say. Buttttt your posts are awesome. Therefore you are awesome. The end!

  3. You know, your writing’s really cool and everything, but . . . Girl. Lez Be Real. That routine of yours : the unpolished latex “adult baby” gear in an unprecedented shade of sun-faded Pepto Bismol pink ; the battery-powered chainsaws — all three of them — each revved and at the ready to devour phalanges with their menacing sense of Bitch, You-Call-That-Adolescent-Ass-Arrangement-Of-Aluminum-In-Your-Mouth-A-Grill? I’ll-Show-You-GRILL, BB. I’ll-Show-You-Grill ; the Doppler Effect in full effect as you juggled them with such ease, it’s no surprise gasps from the crowd drowned my own thoughts like the tsunami of blood that erupted from my nose . . . I mean. Mind blown? Shit’s superfluous like woah. I’m tellin’, and if this were a sitch in which I were actually tellin’, i.e. subjecting you to an attack of my vocal cords rather than a typically confusing read : Not even when the full shelf of Poppers exploded back in the ‘quake of — aw, hell . . . whenever that was. A time before I was associated with hyper-hyphenated rants and abusive acts of caps lock? Sure. Sure, we could call it that. We could for damn near any nomenclature. But whatever the case? Point of the matter that really matters is : That thing you do, even and especially when you aren’t doing it but farking OATH can you make me believe it? Yeah. Times like that. Some of the other ones, even. I think, “Gurba? As in : Em Effer from Southie, sayin’ Gerber. You know. Like, the Gerber baby?” And then it all clicks, why you so hella Ain’t-Even-Gon’-Tell-Ya-How-Sick. So you don’t. Tsk, tsk, tsk . . . You don’t. But Just So You Know [ scare quotes implied, ad nauseam ] : I know. I mean, I know. Ya naw mean?

    Essactly. ♥

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