Dejection Year

Shame and Reverence go hand in hand, memory stains a sin in the white brick.

Water casts a reflective shine with dawn’s approval, the dirtied pool from last night’s skinny-dipping session has a few dead leaves and a loose pair of panties drifting by the diving board. Another party, another riff, time is absent from the halls of this place. Tearful goodbyes back to home countries, offsite orgies you’ll never be invited to, roman candles popping off the balcony when you’re trying to sleep. The land of pretend and lost toys, wall murals painted by drug addicts. A burgeoning political hive-mind.

We all had our little jobs in this Communist Complex, four hours a week of menial tasks meant to encourage cooperation, friendship, casual polyamory. I cleaned the stairs and swept the leaves outside in the Autumn, meanwhile a kitchen full of expats cooked potato-based meals that were included in the rent price. $700 didn’t feel too steep to share a room in populist utopia, that little concrete oasis. 

Run by an alt-female cabal with an iron fist, thoughts and opinions expressed therein were largely dictated by them and their Lord Humongous, a nose-pierced pastatarian with the big job of booking the social events paid for with a secret fund made from illicit public parties. If you weren’t part of the union, you were a scrutinized exile, primed for deportation. It always helped increasing your social status by selling drugs and having rainbow hair, a strategy that I failed to utilize and instead opted for the danger of ambiguity. I bought Molly from a Biology major who didn’t own any shirts, only glittered star-spangled wizard pants.

It was easy to spend hours staring into the barrel-pupil eyes of another, talking of philosophy, arts, anything that fit the flavor of the moment. My Orientation Day I had a two hour long conversation with a trans math genius about the complexity of the universe. This same math genius offered me cocaine off of his iPad a few months later. Regretful, I don’t think I ever properly answered his most burning question: would I ever have sex with a Velociraptor? Well, Bishop, for the record in written word, i’d have to say no. I’d hold out for a T-Rex.

My roommate was a second generation Indian-American college student, hulking in stature, weakest handshake i’ve ever felt. Obsessed with Middle Eastern warfare, poorly pixelated xerox copies of tanks with red circle selections lined the walls of our room. He paged into Al-Jazeera once from some undisclosed location, I imagine he was wearing a suit top while wearing no pants, his usual evening attire. Aligned well with the times I walked into the room and he was passed out drunk in prayer position on his bed.

Alcoholism was a casual, celebrated affair, oftentimes money for beer kegs was collected on a nightly basis for costume parties, ranging from debutante Prohibition era dress to wearing trash bags and newspaper clippings, anything but clothes. Whip-it canisters strewn and tossed about the building. Encouraged psychedelic use — this was our access to that higher consciousness, all of us together, lying in a “cuddle puddle” on top of piled mattresses on the floor. Designated rooms for debauchery, only the attractive people got to have sex. That theory that only a small percentage of the top males get all of the women in a social pool? We would have been staunch incels if it weren’t for the fact that we’d become tortured political prisoners with the Hillary logo patched onto our vests. Tied to a crochet crucifix at dinnertime and beaten with dildos.

I long forgot my purpose while I played the court jester, the clown flouncing about the party atmosphere worth little to no regard. Always been my safe place. They nicknamed me “Baby,” my big cheeks and small demeanor. A cruel label, this tiny way of mockery into subservience, I was anything but a threat. Try getting laid with toothy Euro-Trash when you’re known around the party as “Baby.” All things considered, I had my tiny lucks. Always attractive to the BPD types, don’t know what that says about me. One knocked at my door blackout drunk every night, screaming that she just wanted to “talk.” Another strung along a sordid year-and-a-half non-relationship after holding my virginity hostage. I watched the police do nothing as she performed a magnificent monologue, convincing them she wasn’t having a suicidal episode. I stroked the Nordic contours of a Danish face nightly for an entire semester after listening to her electronic musical art pieces. I made out with a girl that had Herpes™ on New Years midnight while bottle rockets screamed into the air and burning American Flags waved next to naked dicks.

The empty Winter reminded you of the reality, the stragglers avoiding family holiday riding scooters up and down the kitchen and making forts out of the dinner chairs. Days turned into years, so many people around at all times that even when there wasn’t, you could still hear their whispers through the plaster painted grout. They all came back eventually, onset acidic paranoia. The tremulous side effect of the deepening social burden, those voices coming from the outside. One member of the community became especially brutish, only after about his second month living there — painting black eyes and blood on his face, calling the cops and blaming rape on a Tiny Tim-esque English boy who’s only real crime was being English and a boy. Now sewn into the roots of history, another member goes on the Banned Board. Something of a legend, this Jewish Puerto Rican with pierced eyebrows and hair a black pompadour wave. I believed him when he told me he lost his virginity behind a Wendy’s dumpster.

Always the apocalypse felt like it was right around the corner, mass daily decadence, I had found hippie Babylon. Shattered it felt, the day that Trump got elected. 2016, the so-believed death of common sense. I remember coming home and seeing the entire entryway, dining hall, littered with broken vodka bottles and party streamers. Couldn’t happen, would never happen. Celebrate the coming election of Lady Liberty, blonde and defiant in her ironed pantsuit. Reality hit the masses. Inside the TV room were the last few left willing to watch the news. He was marching on the stage with his family.

Behind me, I heard tears. Literal tears. “Welp, that sucks.” My friend said, drunk, likely not sure how to feel. “SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU’RE WHITE, YOU’RE GOING TO BE FINE!” erupted from the front row. Our intrepid pastatarian was huddled by her harem, snot in sob. My friend was in fact white, and he was smart. He shrugged his shoulders and continued drinking. Not the time to argue.

One of the many communes in this town, we were the only one with the pool, making us the highfalutin’ envy of the entire organization. Our neighbors were our rivals, considered a motley crew comprised of jean-short cutoff barbaric retard neanderthals, penchants for bloodlust, kicking in windows and overdosing on opiates. Every year they hosted a bicycle race, covering the entire scale of the property, bleeding into the streets, drive-through’s of fast food restaurants, into convenience stores, members’ rooms. Fraught with obstacles and play-actors: spooning a mermaid on a dirty air mattress, eating chocolate out of a cracked toilet bowl, making art with your paint-splattered ass, all culminating in a group bike orgy. It was exactly what it sounded like.

How to avoid the obstacles? Easy. In the parking lot of the commune, the other members of their respective houses would do as many beer bongs as possible, granting skips to their riders. Not much memory of this day, to be honest. But a family driving down this residential street, likely lost on the way to one of the many novelty events downtown, no way they were from this area. A mother, father, and a kid in a carseat. Looking up at this crowd, unauthorized screeching in the parking lot. Young, drunk, semi-functional members of society, the future. Some naked, some splatted with ketchup. Raising victory on the weak of their shoulders, somebody won this race, but it didn’t matter who. Welled with emotion, we all skinny-dipped in prime daylight while one of our riders hosed off a gash. 

This day, and not until this day, I felt the creeping undertone pervade while I shrunk to centimeters. These selfish times, this soulless squander. Hedonism unleashed, my greatest fears realized. I wished then for a penance, remediation for the friends I wasted, the family I ignored, the time that I allowed to slip away under pot haze and tail chase. The crowd is now creating a whirlpool with speed, joining hands and swirling a bodily mass. One deep breath for a final exhortation.

In the collective cheers for nothing, we prayed for mercy.

Holiday Sales Spike

Small Border Business Prepares for Hellish Holiday Season

All hands are on deck this December as the year of our Lord comes to a close. Impeachment hearings, race wars, and an erratic stock market, the news has become nothing but a beacon of bad tidings, and one local business is racing to beat the cold and provide opportunistic solace to its distressed denizens.

“It be like, ummmm, we gotta sell a lotta shit,” local gang member Chiva Madre (birth name) relays while bagging up what appear to be blue crystals, transparent underneath and effervescent in the sunlight. “People be askin’, yo niggy, where my product at?! They be havin’ holiday get-togethers and family problems and shit, I dunno. We make ‘em happy, i’m like Christmas Clause.”

Madre is one of the founding leaders of local gang, “Los Gueyes,” a criminal network specializing in the drug trade across the city as well as over the border. An overall productive year for the gang, they managed to stack a whopping 25 million dollars purely in the movement of their unique strand of drugs, so popular that the International Department of Drug Trafficking has even taken notice.

“Los Gueyes have moved an astounding amount of their product, codenamed ‘Smurf Cum,’ despite the best efforts of trained undercover field agents and surveillance technology,” Commissioner Cheeseman reported at a recent press conference/Christmas social. “Personally, it’s the holidays, they’re Mexicans… this thing is a done deal. Let them finish out the year, I say. Let’s propose a toast,” Cheeseman continued while raising a glass of three-decade aged Pinot Grigio™ to the futility of his bureau.

The Government isn’t the only organization taking a hit this holiday season. Local Pimp Thaddeus D. Washington (birth name) has been providing bargain female accompaniment to the bar-and-back-alley scene for a little over a decade, and has seen for himself the trouble in keeping afloat during these cold Winter months.

“Listen here, White Devil. It be cruel and hard like a witch tit out heya (sic) ‘round ‘dis (sic) time. The bitches be wantin’ First Class flights back to Montana, these washed up punk drunk niggas be wantin’ two hours of prime pussy for the price of one… playa’s (sic) can’t survive in this harsh economic climate.” Washington prides himself on his aptitude for following the economy and playing it safe, investing in flash markets and maintaining his animal fur purple-suit zeal. “Nigga’s be thinkin’ you gotta stay in the pussy game and keep all yo eggs in one suitcase or some shit. I monopolize to keep the money flowing. You need baby shoes, I got baby shoes. You need a jailbroke iPhone 4, nigga I got twenty lining my coat righ’ (sic) now keeping my jail-titties warm. Don’t punk me bitch, buy now.”

With Christmas coming in little over a week, Los Gueyes are preparing for a final sales push, putting up billboards all over town and handing out flyers. “Anything to get that money in my house, bitch. I be tryin’ to buy that new Rolex for my Tía as a surprise. Come by [ADDRESS REDACTED] any time between 2 AM and 12 PM for that good shit. And you better print that address, guero.”

A National Disquiet

I’d be lying if I said that first seal-breaking beer piss isn’t my favorite moment in this pure life. A simple man with simple pleasures. I’d have that phrase tattooed under my tits if I wasn’t so afraid of needles and body artists. These bone-in Wild Wings are already dive-bombing my stomach, I’d hardly scooted out from the bar before they’ve started to melt down my clogged tracts. Waxed with cream sauces and oils, i’m indiscriminate about the flavors, i’ve tried them all. Hard to digest, yet necessary on the acids. I pride myself on my Ford-Tough™ immune system.

This piss is mostly savory because I never have to miss a moment of the game. Urinal Television sets built into the walls, the height of American will and technology. No worries about glancing at your neighbor’s member, we’re all sucked into the tasks at hand. I’m ashamed to admit i’ve left more than a few drops on my shoes before when I got too excited and had another one of those involuntary cheering spells. I’m a whore for the magic, what can I say? I paint my face for the team I live five states away from.

Color me surprised when the subject matter gets serious. Ten seconds ago we were down a yard from a touchdown before the end of the third quarter. Bladder was screaming, hadn’t pissed since I left home. Comforted by the screens in the bathroom, it didn’t feel like too big of a deal. The Boys™ can hear my cheers through the door. Not exactly a chaos moment.

The News is screaming on TV, the volume turned up and echoing in the stalls, i’m the only one here. Missiles flying from over the coast, major metropolitan areas hitting bomb shelters and State-Of-Emergency evacuation measures. Looting on helicopter-cams, panic in the streets, prayers in the sheets. A pre-recorded Cold War era Country goodbye marches onscreen, anthem fluted in the background while the White House fades into static. Did we get the touchdown or not?

Outside the bathroom door everything’s in slow motion. I started to feel that fourth draft Stout, a hot little bit of piss stream dribbled down my leg. Screams around, people ducking under the tables calling loved ones, a great big push out the front door. The Boys™ are waving me over under the pool table, one’s crying like a little bitch. To my right is the kitchen, the last vestige of opportunity.

No cooks left in here, all abandoned ship disloyal. God left me this plate of perfectly preserved, fresh Barbecue wings sitting artisanal before getting sent to another crowd of beer bellies. Boneless, but i’ll deal. I don’t need to wash my hands anymore, nobody’s looking. The soft sauce burns my fingertips when I pull a wing up to my lips. Every morsel of flash-frozen skin cracking juicy under my teeth. A single tear traces down my cheek as the sky goes yellow. At least I died doing what I loved.

The Incel Inquisition

Written by Sharon Czehzlelberger

“I hate women, they only want to fuck Chads and GigaChads.”

Local self-proclaimed Incel Jimmy Dinkus, 19, sat across from me at local Applebee’s affiliate Chili’s, nursing a glass of whole milk and a plate of chicken tenders I begrudgingly purchased for him to get the interview.

I noticed Dinkus while I was on campus doing my usual rounds of tearing down flyers for organizations without strict transparent POC representation. Pock-skin, pale face, he was noticeably reading a hardcover copy of Mein Kampf in the Union Building. The Modern Warfare 2 t-shirt and the jean shorts were all I needed to see to know that I had my story.

“Yeah Hitler was a pretty cool guy. Sometimes I read that book out loud on the bus to bother the normies.” Dinkus has this smug, caucasian air about him. He told me he was a KHV: in IncelSpeak™, this means Kissless Handholdless Virgin, a type of person I didn’t believe existed until this conversation.

“I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was 5, Autism when I was 8, Aspergers when I was 11, and I had to get surgery after I burned my penis in a microwaved banana. They put me in Special Ed classes and made me wear a nametag with my illnesses so they could identify me.” Dinkus’s case was a sad one, a story that hardly seemed like his fault, one almost worth sympathy. But what he said next was what helped me realize what a scourge this movement really was.

“I think if your partner count is over 2 before you turn 18 you’re probably really unhappy.” The staff of the restaurant had to hold me back from stuffing my choker down his throat, and I demanded a few mimosas to calm down, lest they receive a lawsuit for restraining a handicapped femme without my consent.

I asked him what could possibly compel him into believing such things, where he was radicalized, and how often he feels remorseful about how his mere existence is putting people like me in danger.

“Uh… I don’t.” He looked me dead in the eye with all of the crust, all of the hate burning in his big brown Aryan eyes. “You ever been around a woman lately? I mean, it’s too late for creatures like you, but i’m talking about live, breathing women. Attempting to interact with them is all it takes to know what’s wrong.”

I left the interview at this moment, disgusted and unable to continue. How did we let it get this bad? Why can’t online white supremacist virgins just die in a hole where they belong, instead of pestering us already disenfranchised folks who just want to be able to wear Gimp suits wherever we want.

About the Author —

Sharon Czelhbunger: Poly, Les, She/They, Afro-American

An investigative journalist with a penchant for the patriarchy, Czehzlelbergess graduated with an Associate’s Degree of Creative Writing from the American Southern Poverty Law Center. Amateur comedienne podcaster by day, undercover writer by night, her favorite tea is Oolong and her favorite malt is Mickey’s. A bad bitch with fat hair, subscribe to her Patreon and follow her Premium Snapchat if you want to support the winning side of the race war.

“I think most people’s view is that selfies are just vanity and stupid, but I think they’re really great” – Hannah Gadsby, inspirational comedienne.

Don’t Fear Your Demographics!

If I had to give any business advice, it would be that. The tragedy market’s done very good this year, record-high fatalities equal more traction for us. We get asked all the time about our ethics, that’s the fun conversation with the racists at the family dinner table. Listen, if you think about it, we’re empowering people, getting the word out there. The message is what matters. Sure, deals are made, money exchanges hands, but we give the gift of strength in the form of marketing campaigns and trendy t-shirts you can hashtag on the internet. Take the bad with the good.

We rent out a co-working space, but I don’t mind collaboration. I’ve got a standing desk with a #freethegirls branded yoga ball, my posture’s heavily improved and my meatless metabolism is kept alight with the coffee room soy snacks. Mandated daily sensitivity trainings and team-building exercises keep us all interconnected, and when the craft beer cart rolls around on Friday I know I earned it.

Mass shootings, climate change, we got the shirts and the stickers. Our office has a few big tickers below the balcony, 100-inch FIOS enabled Google Televisions, constantly running Twitter searches for information and updates. It’s like watching the DOW Jones crashing, or something like that, I’m not hetero enough to pay attention to meaningless bullshit like the Stock Market. This is where the real work begins.

We have the power to meme the public into having closure. They were able to put a demagogue President in the White House, we managed to give O’Rourke’s AR-15 rant a cool logo and make it SEO-friendly. We’ll admit, those Black Hebrew Isrealites made it pretty difficult for us — no strong child advocates for that one. Sometimes you gotta make apples out of oranges, redirect back to gun control. You can’t always win.

We like the happy hours after work, there’s a vapor bar in the BOHO district that’s a cheap pool rideshare away. The conversation is always light all things considered, there’s so many series on streaming services today it’s hard to keep up. I’ll admit, that $500 Avengers Endgame cast-signed poster is more of a talking piece than real art in my apartment, but it makes a good phone background that gives people that little yaaaassss and excited jazz hand wave.

We’re all the same age, twenty-something’s with varying degrees of education. For most of us, this was our first job out of college, this company’s notorious for hiring Interns. I mean, it’s nice of them, I guess. None of us really wanted to end up here it seems, but moving back to our respective backwards buttfuck burrough-towns was a greater insult than taking a job we didn’t really want. The office is a little too white if i’m honest. I’ve voiced my concerns at the weekly HR Hacky-Sack Honesty Pow-Wower Hour™, but I haven’t seen many changes.

I’d say the best part of our job is the counter-measures we sneak in to trick those fascist boomers. That’s right — we have our own versions of MAGA hats. Confederate Flags, Libtard Snowflake Repellant novelty spray — anything to milk those filthy r*tard mongoloids of their social security checks. Just make a new website with an attractive name: “”

Nobody can tell the difference.

Feta Furburger

By Feta Furburger

That’s the name they gave me on the forums. A little inaccurate, I only sprinkled cheese on myself once, user request. Whatever, it stuck.

Bothered me at first, i’ll admit. I mean, i’ve always been told I look young. That’s part of the appeal, I know what I got. It’s all about marketing yourself, there’s a million OnlyFans accounts and amateur webcam shows going on at any time. I look kinda Scandinavian, kinda underdeveloped. It makes me money, I don’t mind the association anymore.

It would take a decade to rise to the top in any other situation. Coincide world climate disaster, business is booming. Something about a shrewd, political young woman gets people going. 

“Fucks like a thunderstorm, gets moist like the melting ice caps.”

My bio wrote itself.

I’ve gotten the most money when I recited the monologues, those impassioned speeches, while I used a microphone-shaped dildo. Community theater productions prepared me for this.

Sometimes I don’t even do any sex stuff. I put on a full costume and just… talk. Share some stern words about the failure of the last generation. I’m not sure I believe any of this stuff, there’s too much research. But the news said it was bad, so I guess it’s true.

I don’t think they’ll ever ban porn, i’m not worried about that. Even if they do, i’ll just switch to Twitch streams. “Forget” my socks during a speech session. Hell, i’ll buy a green screen, do a weather report. I’ve got soft movements, I can stamp my feet and make a wry face.

Didn’t know what I was going to do after High School to be honest. My guidance counselor always told me to go online and get active, so that’s exactly where I went. Don’t know where i’d be without him.

I feel like I should be allowed to do what I want without judgement. What’s nice is that the guys in the chat defend me a lot, I call them BurgerBoys. They get called pedophiles, they just say they care about the environment. They’re not here for the porn, they’re here for the truth. The other guys get mad and call me a libtard, then request that I should keep talking.

In come the coins.

My Nametag Says Billy Banks

Dressed to the nine’s, i’m prepared for the deluge. Suit tie pressed and dry-cleaned, my pockets say no but my cashier smile says yes. Buttery jam bought from the hair-store online, smooth and youth, front ends curl stream like a jet-liner. Who knew so many poor people need the bank in the morning?

Putter by one by one, huddled penguins in dime-store jackets. God never wanted this for his children. I’ve missed church since I got this higher-up position, i’m sure He’ll understand. Anyway, I looked important in my morning meeting to the crowd peeking through the glass.

I never say anything, I let the women do the talking. The last time I interrupted I had a long alley conversation with the branch manager. He waved his hands and told me in kind words that I was wrong, though I wasn’t in trouble, and that I should use the free online employee-resource therapy to cut the wrongs from my mind. I couldn’t stop staring at the lipstick stain hiding under his breast cancer support ascot.

I feel like a winner every day of my life. I spent years toiling away in the backs of bars, Chinese restaurants. I made tips, got laid, drank myself into stupors and pissed onto parked cars. This bank picked me up from the dirt and gave me purpose. Reason to shower, get up in the morning reloaded. Paint the walls with raw enthusiasm. Fake it ’til you make it, the plaque says on top of the doorframe in the break-room.

Assistant Manager salary got me this motorcycle. Cherry red, long curled handles, shined at the dealership. I’m on loan for this thing for at least ten years, but they told me the pussy would make up for it. Still haven’t seen the benefits, but I don’t mind waiting. Rolling up to family dinners with some circumstance, that’s all that matters to me. They told me I was stupid for skipping out on community college, for not marrying that girl I met on OkCupid who liked to fry eggs in ghee. If I listened to them I would’ve killed myself. I let them know this every time I see them.

I pray every day for a robbery, but I don’t think those happen anymore. Barbaric, meant for small meth towns and KFC’s. If they were smart they’d attack from within, commit fraud with all this access I have. With my loyalty, my honor, this bank is failsafe. I conceal carry a pistol on my ankle, licensed in all 50 states, I think.

They’d hit the door first, at least two in coordination. Ski masks, glasses, AK’s. They’d knick the guard first to make a presence, hated that blonde prick anyway. Take Sheila hostage, I glance at her toes every day when she isn’t looking. “Hit the silent alarm, we put a bullet in her teeth.” I stretch a light grin as she starts to cry. Don’t worry baby, i’m licensed.

I’d hit the floor diving, palm that pistol in the swift motion I practice on my fold-out bed every night. Pop one, two, four into each of their dicks, blood explodes onto the floor like a balloon burst. My palms are sweating when i’m awaken from this daydream, hundreds of dollars in my hand that I have yet to hand over to this 40 year-old Nurse with blue braces. She’ll never know my pain. She only knows that if I don’t give her this money her boob-job payment will be late. Some people will never know the light of the other side. I’m not an empath for the weak, the stragglers.

Slow November

It’s late now, and we’re only five hours from the sun’s peek. I’m used to smelling like cigarettes, and I look cheap in my jacket when I stand outside kicking a beer can in the parking lot. I haven’t been touched in over a year now, and the last time was that 45 year old Missed Connections mother with a smoker’s rasp. Flem and cum make a confused gargle.

It doesn’t say “gay bar,” with a sign or anything, it’s a feeling in the air. That’s if you ignore the glam smell and the Benatar blasting on the TV screens. There’s always TV screens.

I don’t care for any of the holidays, which is why I spend them in absences like this. This is the closest to the vein we get, here in these bars, all of the like-minded show up to ignore the hatred outside. Rain, sleet, if i’m not here I miss that urine emanating from the one working urinal too close to the door too close to the dated cigarette vending machine. I stay out here late at night to avoid the casinos, where my bitch wife is at. Of course she’s a bitch, of course she gambles. Gambling away her good years, my good money. 

The bartender has got that lack of a grin that gives this place some gumption, some evidence that Hell still reigns on the outside, that this establishment is complicit in merry-making, that we’ve still got the animal left in us. You’d expect more from a place like this on a Tuesday night. Just a gay couple and their fat friend-girl. I’m not feeling social enough yet to try and drag them through a line of drunk questioning, I don’t even have it in me to entertain myself. Half-priced top shelf liquor – this place should be a hotbed. Maybe it was back when, a bar like this would have done well in the pit of Sodom. Instead it’s sallow and domesticated, free of the erection ego, dead like the rest of the country.

In a fit of inspiration I try to converse with the group. They’re older up close, talking big game of the past when life was eminent. Reminisce, that’s all we do at this age. We have nothing left to squander, no experiences left in this descent into dark corners. So, I listen. I know how to look captivated. I rest my chin on my fist, I look doe-eyed, I can even bring about a tear if the story needs it. I should’ve gone into play-acting.

I tune out like I always do eventually, I’ve got nothing to add. I had no real glory days — I was blessed with a dead life early. I’ve never escaped the trap of expectations. I’m steel wool for the dirt, the shit that lines the sink when you let your kids wash the dishes. I couldn’t be a metaphor if I tried. I’ll always be behind the wall, stuck in two dimensions.

These walls are mute from years of occurrence, the outer arguably dirtier than both bathrooms, locks unfixed on the doors, grout cum grain graffiti stickered blowdryer. Time may as well not exist here, it’s another fixture along with the lights, blinking ten years replaced then another ten, colors unchanged from Christmas. Inhibitions buried under late-night waitress bag eyes maple syrup waft on her uniform collar, she was probably a great singer when she was in High School. I wonder if i’m lucky being the first person she saw when she walked in the door. Jacket on and it’s not cold outside.

There’s a recession going on, a spreading wildfire, that’s what the TV tells me while she attempts to cry into my shoulder. She sounds like she’s choking on her tongue when I feel the eyeliner run onto my neck. I’m holding her and i’m watching HD enhanced trailer park dicks cry about a missing child. The way their mouths move I swear I can hear them talk on mute. This woman could be my daughter.

She looks up at me from the lowered window of her minivan. I don’t deserved to be thanked, i’m silent enough to sound like i’m listening. She thinks more tips would make her life better. I have nothing against people with money, they seem to have all the answers.

Bless the rich, and bless me. God bless me. One day the war will be over.