I'M OUT!

I've come out of hiding on The Facebook. I've been sending out friend requests, but if I haven't gotten to you yet, request me as your friend.

Also, check out my buddy Lisa T's profile here. WHO ARE YOU TO CALL ME PATHETIC.

Michelle Tiu was fucked up out of her tiny body Friday night, but before she went and made things awkward for everyone, she managed to snap some faux toes:



Everyone witnesses my scathing parody of Michelle's huge smile. Shane in the intermediate stages of exposing his chest.



Your words are beautiful to me, Mike.



She manages to take the picture just as I'm getting attacked by a shark.



Getting head.



A nice picture of Michelle and me.



Jesus Christ, Krzysztof, open your fucking eyes asshole.

After that, Adam and I went to Southie where everything gets spotty. We went to The Cornerstone, right by the Broadway T station, and another bar across the street--my agency was retreating from me. I drank shots of Jameson from a bartender who, as Adam pointed out, looked like a fat version of Shane--same glasses, even. We were threatened, in a way I can't remember, by an Irish guy with pointy teeth. I just remember being scared and moving to the other end of the bar, where we met three kids our age from North Carolina. We spent the rest of the night talking with them. I don't remember anything we talked about. On the T, this poem by Matthew Rohrer, "The World at Night," kept circling in my head.

from THE WORLD AT NIGHT

I went out one night with people from work

to an editor's apartment. I drank

a glass of poison. She served me poison

and everyone else was either immune

or politely refused. In the subway

I didn't know the meanings of any words

and my sweat stung me. People on the car

pushed me off at the next stop when I puked

in my hands. Without any meaning, time

accreted to things in funny shapes—old,

asymmetrical hobbledehoys

tormented me, a stern but benevolent

lizard gave me counsel. My stomach contents

spilled around me. My mind was actually

seven or eight minds, all but one of them

composed of helicopters. The other one

was sad. Satellites could tell I was sad.

When another subway came I crawled on

and technically I passed into death, but

passed through and awoke at Coney Island

and saw black cowboys galloping on the beach.

Hungry, mentally defeated, I stared

at The World's Largest Rat—for fifty cents.

Really, it was only the same color

as a rat. "It's from the same family,"

the barker explained. I felt vulnerable

illuminated by neon and fried light.

Everyone had to use one big toilet

and the sky was orange with satellites.

And satellites know everything.


It was especially powerful when I was drunk, as most things are, although trying to remember lines from the poem made me dizzy. I remember falling face-first onto my bed and Adam taking off my shoes. I woke up the next morning still drunk and sweating in my clothes. I stared into our one big toilet and spilled the contents of my stomach.

In a way, I guess you could say it was our own little Teenage Wasteland.