just like a movie star

quit your job, dear

then you can stay here at home, beside me

you'll be james dean

i'll be sal mineo, you can hide me

What I really want to say is this: You can count on the fact that I wont give up—never. That nothing and no one will ever force me to my knees. That one day I will repay your brave love. That I will see to it that you dont have to work like a slave anymore. That one day I will make so much money by my own wits that Ill even be able to buy you one of those Burberry coats (even though theyre so last year), a pair of black leather mittens like youve always wanted (your claim being that mittens are warmer than gloves, which makes sense, I suppose), and handcrafted Tods driving shoes, the kind the big time movie stars used to wear when they drove from LA to Vegas.

You will drink as much real coffee (enough of that Maxwell House shit) and eat as many hot-out-of-the-oven rolls with real Alsatian honey (from France, mom, trust me its the best) that you desire.

You wont have to pretend: the windows in your new house wont be cracked and the shutters will be freshly painted.

Its blue inside. Theres a pie cooling on the sill.

You ll look forward to seeing your little girl. This time you ll even like my hair.

In the evenings we ll drink sparkling cider by the sea.

destroy evil

Random notes scrawled on the back of a weed menu that I nabbed from the fag coffeeshop The Other Side...

...and kept as a souvenir in my pocket through the rain and the sleet until it turned into a flimsy tissue of disintegrating wax and glue:



I’m here in Amsterdam’s city center. More precisely: I’m at a bar, with my head on the bar.

Same old, same old: A spliff…a shot…a pill…the irrefutable beat to which time marches on...

(within me without me)

All those good people rushing around on bikes and trams at 5PM, hurrying home to dinner…I stare into their faces, wanting desperately to know about their lives—the clean, bright Dutch corners where they read their books and hold their children. Suddenly I realize that I haven’t eaten all day and I’m on the verge of passing out. I run into a pita place and tell them to make me one with everything on it, extra spicy, please, and when I bring it to my mouth I’m so hungry that a long string of drool actually lands on the yellow pita bread, like a scene out of the fucking Fly or something.

This bar is so cheesy, I love it. All the cocktails are adorned with psychedelic umbrellas and shiny flags. The synthesizer riff in "The Walk" by The Cure is repeated over and over like some hysterical call to black eyeliner arms.

...triangles, spheres, straight lines...a struggle that signifies the magic number itself, split and then doubled in the sky.

www.trueboy.blogspot.com--a petal scattered retreat where eternal adolescence is lionized and near-obsessive introspection is heralded as an ideal lifestyle choice.

Email me with your address if you want a copy of the zine that the drunk junkies made of my writing as well as other gift goodies (all of them legal, I promise…do you really think I’m in the mood for some heavy duty felony shit?)

Oh, and it’s free, like everything on BRANDTRUEBOY.

Thank-you for your time.

Sincerely,

TRUEBOY.

(The Other Side coffeeshop)

catch myself, make it real

I’m sorry, I couldn’t call. I tried, but I hung up when you said “hello?” I hadn’t planned on doing that, at least not consciously, but I freaked when I heard your voice and it sounded exactly as I’d imagined. OK, not exactly, because no matter how hard you try you can never really hear someone’s voice in your head. Even if you’ve known a person for a thousand years, there’s always something missing when you try to imagine him or her saying something. Fantasies are merely ventriloquist sessions with fancy dummies.

That’s what someone should do, invent sex dolls with strings on the back of their heads, so you could flap their big wet mouths open and closed and have them whisper all the words we all want so badly to hear.

“Hello?” There was emphasis on the question mark: it was vaguely mocking, serving to drive home the truth of the caller’s audaciousness. “Hello? Who the fuck do you think you are, calling me?” But there was also a note of suspicion—you were tentative, perhaps having had a chance when the phone rang to think about how you’d given your number to me, and how maybe that was me calling right now and you don’t really know who I am or what I’m about or what I might want.

As for me, I already explained how this is the thousandth time we’ve met. At least I got as far as writing that your voice was already in my head. There’s some dubbed-out mix with your name on it, a compilation of all my naughty desires and my dirty little memories burned into wax by my brain’s very own phonograph. The house wheel, the one that comes as a factory standard, pre-installed in the sacred studio where all the master tapes are produced. The variations on your “voice” makes up the soundtrack to the movie in my mind, in which I walk across the screen (preferably a drive-in screen, so i can be a giant) and I (closeup) look up and see you (pan right!) standing on white concretesteps, leaning against the doorway with your shades on.

The wind blows. You’re looking out from under your dark bangs. I’m wearing my black Pinhead T-Shirt and a natty green cardigan. The sun dips dramatically behind a cloud.

But not too dramatically. Not to the point where it's stupid and lame.

You lower your shades and we look each other in the eye. In that second, we meet in some strange halfway place, where there’s only half-light and half-thoughts…desires, mainly…colors, urges…music.

An entire future spins out in front of us.

I walk up the steps and take a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. You’re still holding my gaze, like a hawk or a child.

We’re both pale as Goths.

You’re leering, beautifully. I feel like singing.

Maybe I hung up because in all my scenarios, I never thought your first words to me would be, “Hello”.

I always imagined you’d say, “It’s you.”

OR

“Come here,” as you stretched out your arms to embrace me.

(yeah they really want you they really want you they really do)

raymi

Don't Matter

(lapanse.com)

It's all going to end badly.

Amsterdam

This town's become too small. All the canals have been magically pressed together, so that it seems as though I keep crossing and recrossing the same narrow bridge all day long. People are talking, they're getting to know my story. Every day, a little more falls into place. The TRUEBOY saga unfolds over half pints of Heineken, cheeseplates and Drum tobacco...at damp SnelTram stations and dusty, brightly lit grocery stores. Women in fancy hats wink at me from under fluorescent awnings. When I'm walking the streets I keep my eyes on my hands and try to look bored. I work too hard at it so of course I fail.

Immediate, automatic failure.

Of course the publicity hasn't been entirely involuntary.

I've willingly posed for a few pictures. I've held a drunken audience or two.

But the craziest thing was the zine put together by some alcoholic needleheads.

The entire thing is made up of my insane rants that night in the detox bin.

Those leeches saved all the bits of brown paper bag and seagull adorned toiletpaper that I scrawled upon. They copied down the shit I wrote on the wall, glorifying (among others) Sterling, Raymi, Anti and Jamie.

My ordeal with Fitz is in there too--how he hacked into my shit like a frat boy in a sorority girl's panty drawer...

My half blacked out memories of making speeches and writing furiously apparently had some truth to them after all.

The four page Xerox staple job is a hot commodity in the cafes. Apparently, the baby-faced cop was instrumental in transcribing my bullshit. He placed a high end voice recorder at the edge of the cell.

"Listen to the American cleaning out her head!" you can hear him say in Dutch, in the background.

The kids come up to me in the English bookstore.

"This is some next level writing," they say to me. "You guys have invented a new form of art."

"That's correct, Sir! Buy me a steak and chicken dinner and I'll tell you all about it. The epic tale of Tony Pierce...the poetic pop culture stylings of Jim Treacher...it's all there...just a click a way..."

I'm making my own copies of the zine, in case any of you are interested...

Nothing left of life but a pair of glassy eyes

Yerbluetoy: we have no memory of flyers in the night.

Trixietreat: ?

Yerbluetoy: pixies

Trixietreat: god, do we agree on any music?

Yerbluetoy: yes. Iggy Pop.

Trixietreat: yes, that’s one.

Yerbluetoy: yeah, but c’mon, how could you not like the pixies?

Yerbluetoy: is she weird is she white? Is she promised to the night?

Trixietreat: fat guys don’t do it for me. Sorry.

Yerbluetoy: why? You always claim to be a hedonist.

Yerbluetoy: and eating is a way of self-pleasuring.

Trixietreat: and pleasuring others. Remember when I made you that roast?

Trixietreat: you’d been living off of balance bars and green tea.

Yerbluetoy: melted balance bars

Yerbluetoy: that’s when I was having a hard time swallowing food that wasn’t packaged..



Trixietreat: especially meat.

Yerbluetoy: it was a real thing. You saw me. I’d literally start gagging.

Trixietreat: so I decided to help you get over it by making something that I knew you couldn’t resist.

Yerbluetoy: you got me drunk first.

Trixietreat: extremely drunk. In the middle of the afternoon. It was fun.



Yerbluetoy: Yeah. G&Ts.

Trixietreat: when the meal was ready you ate it all. The pink and juicy meat, covered in brown gravy. The spicy boiled potatoes—the bright orange carrots. Warm nut bread…sea salt and sweet butter…Italian mineral water…

Yerbluetoy: ok, let’s talk about something else.

Trixietreat: you enjoy so well. Its a real talent—how deeply you pleasure in things…



Trixietreat: hello?

Trixietreat: this thing on?

Yerbluetoy: but what I really like is to watch.

Trixietreat: good point.

Trixietreat: you have the most intense eyes

Trixietreat: like blue lasers—even when yr high.

Trixietreat: yr eyes have the power to transform a person, just by deciding to watch them.

Trixietreat: by deciding to take an interest.

Yerbluetoy: bullshit. I took an interest in you but it didn’t change you at all

Trixietreat: of course i changed.

Yerbluetoy: you didn’t come with me. I told you it would be good for you to see the world, but you said no.

Yerbluetoy: it’s not like you were learning anything in that stupid school.

Trixietreat: I wanted to come but I can’t leave my sister.

Yerbluetoy: oh, give me a break.



Trixietreat: she needs me.

Yerbluetoy: you’re twelve! She’s 22.

Trixietreat: 23. she turned 23 on Thursday.

Yerbluetoy: oh, shit. Tell her I say happy birthday.

Trixietreat: whatever. She knows you don’t mean it.

Yerbluetoy: of course I do, why would you say something like that?

Yerbluetoy: I love your sister.

Trixietreat: no you don’t. you used her for a little while and told her you were making a movie when really you were just entertaining yourself and fighting your interior boredom.



Yerbluetoy: I am making a movie

Trixietreat: you have no plans to actually finish anything.

Trixietreat: we all fell for it. Me too.

Trixietreat: maybe I fell for it most of all, but not for the reasons that people will think I did.

Yerbluetoy: I’m making a movie. I’m shooting some of it in Europe, that’s all.

Yerbluetoy: it’s called having different SCENES.

Yerbluetoy: so get over it.

Trixietreat: we put you up. My sister bleached her hair. You could have at least told us the plan.

Yerbluetoy: so I didn’t. so what? I’m the director. I’m making you into stars. Anyway she looks better this way.

Trixietreat: you ripped all the sleeves off her shirts.

Yerbluetoy: well, exactly. It’s Arizona. She’s playing the part of Sterling Fassbinder. Sterling would never wear sleeves in the fucking desert.

Yerbluetoy: admit it: you love the scene where your sister’s racing down the lonely highway in a Ford Mustang, top down, song of the same name by Serge Gainsbourg blasting on the radio (“Paco Rabonne!”) the wind making ripples in her drugstore blonde hair, shades on in the middle of the night, braless, nipples erect, grease stained T-shirt billowing out behind her…

Trixietreat: is that what the real Sterling is like?

Yerbluetoy: nope

Yerbluetoy: she doesn’t have the mustang anymore. It got impounded.

Trixietreat: I mean is she that fierce? That free?

Yerbluetoy: I don’t know. That’s the thing, I want your sister to bring out all the broken hearted parts of Sterling. That tough guy act is only an act.

Yerbluetoy: there’s something desperate about her

Trixietreat: I like tough guy acts.

Trixietreat: I like them better on girls than on boys.



Trixietreat: that’s why I like it when you get into yr directorial role…I like when you point the camera at me and tell me what to do.

Yerbluetoy: like that time in the bathroom.

Trixietreat: the black and white one upstairs. where we first met.



Yerbluetoy: it was all your idea.

Trixietreat: plenty of girls my age don’t know what a clit is.

Trixietreat: they don’t know what’s on their very own bodies.

Trixietreat: no one talks to them and they find things and think its something wrong.

Yerbluetoy: so there you are on the toilet, talking to the camera about how you found a blister down there.

Trixietreat: then I lean over and sterilize a needle with a match.

Yerbluetoy: at that point I was already freaking out.

Trixietreat: you didn’t act like it…you just got on your knees on the bathroom floor.

Trixietreat: you zoomed in, snapping on your gum.

Trixietreat: I pulled my lips apart and pressed on my little pink clit with my thumb.

Yerbluetoy: “There it is!” you said, in the sweetest little voice.

Trixietreat: I want to sound a little excited.

Yerbluetoy: Like a kid on a cereal commercial.

Trixietreat: my character’s doing the right thing—she’s going to remove the imperfection—the puss-filled sickness.

Trixietreat: I brought the needle down swiftly.

Yerbluetoy: Hot Quaker fucking oats!

Trixietreat: lol.

Yerbluetoy: you pierced it straight across—I couldn’t believe it

Yerbluetoy: I braced myself--expecting the blood to come shooting out.

Yerbluetoy: then you told me, all matter-of-factly, how you’d done this before.

Trixietreat: plenty of times. duh.



miss liberty phonecards

TIME OUT!

(Wait a minute)

Who's got the mic that rocks the party?

Ultra B's got the mic that rocks the party.

(What you got? What you want?)

If his shit isn't working then you have to go to his other shit.

(What'd you say to him? Jaguar iced-out beats...)

Hey man, I think your banner's too deep

(hold your cranium)

maybe IEs timing out...too many bits to cash

i mean cache

(you be the cash and I'll be the cache)



cuz I'm still feeling you on a fast connection, goat.

checkacheckacheckachecka


(kool keith)

This one goes out to all my nyc peoples across the water:

Listen to the snow,

Listen to the snow,

Listen to the snow...

(and miles to go before I sleep)

I fucking suck at IM. My brain’s all dyslexic and I can’t type quickly without making a ton of mistakes. It’s embarrassing. Like anything I suck at, I try and steer clear of it. But since I left Arizona and came to Amsterdam, that little 12 yr old whore cunt genius, (I gave her the name, “Trixie”) has been emailing me every day, begging me to IM with her. I wrote back, long rambling messages that I thought would satisfy her but she wasn’t having it. I even called her once, getting about 8 minutes in there before the card ran out, but she started in with the pleas the very next day. Apparently, she has friends all over the world that she keeps in contact with this way. By her own definition, she’s a master at the form. Whatever, it’s in two parts. I fixed some of the more glaring fuck-ups with spelling and whatnot. Here’s the first “transcript”:

Yerbluetoy says: I see you used the name I gave you as your tag.

Trixietreat: yeah, so?

Trixietreat: isn’t that what everyone does—use the name you give them?

Yerbluetoy says: only Fitzcarraldo, but who cares about him.

Trixietreat: what happened? All of a sudden you hate him or something?

Trixietreat: like hot to cold?

Yerbluetoy says: long story, let’s talk about something else

Yerbluetoy says: I was never hot.



Trixietreat: you make up all this fake mystery. Why don’t you just get things out in the
open?

Trixietreat: you expect people to put up with your druggie moods

Trixietreat: …or maybe you’re just scared

Yerbluetoy says: think what you want

Yerbluetoy says: listen, if this is going to be about berating me I’ve got better things to

Yerbluetoy says: do

Trixietreat: k




Trixietreat: so what are you doing in Amsterdam, anyway. Business or pleasure?

Yerbluetoy says: You know I work hard, play hard, baby.

Trixietreat: I know you do a lot of drugs.

Yerbluetoy says: that’s just to get the machinery going upstairs, spark a fire—

Yerbluetoy says: knowwhatimsayin?

Trixietreat: that “fire” metaphor doesn’t work so well with coke

Trixietreat: weed is one thing…

Yerbluetoy says: whatever girl, it’s all good.

Trixietreat: you’re a junkie, just like my dad

Yerbluetoy says: o no, a junkie is a smackhead. I haven’t touched that shit in years.

Trixietreat: I know what a junkie is.

Yerbluetoy says: And I never got deep with it, like sterling did.

Trixietreat: You’re always comparing yourself to her, to try and show how you’re not so
fucked up

Yerbluetoy says: I’m just blowing off steam.



Trixietreat: you’re fucking up your brain, you know that—you’re going to have
Alzheimer’s when you’re older and shit your pants.

Yerbluetoy says: with all the cigs you smoke you’re going to get lung cancer by the time
you’re 40.

Yerbluetoy says: and all those dicks in your mouth can’t be healthy, either.

Trixietreat: you smoke too!

Yerbluetoy says: yeah, but not like you

Trixietreat: what, did you get high and forget?

Yerbluetoy says: you’re so young and skinny those Marlboros look like mini penises in
your mouth.

Trixietreat: what’s this obsession with me and dicks?

Yerbluetoy says: you tell me, babyho.

Trixietreat: you know you left a sweat stain on our couch

Yerbluetoy says: what couch

Trixietreat: the orange scratchy one, in the living room

Trixietreat: there’s a stain where your ass was and at the top

Yerbluetoy says: what! what the fuck that shit was totally fucked when I got there.

Trixietreat: maybe those 8 balls make your tits sweat



Yerbluetoy says: what is that shit, circa 1973? It’s seen better days, hot pants.

Yerbluetoy says: give me a break I hardly ever sweat.

Trixietreat: you do. it smells good though, like milk

Yerbluetoy says: this sux

Yerbluetoy says: I’m taking off

Trixietreat: I think you’ve got a lot of problems, TRUE

Yerbluetoy says: sure

Trixietreat: I think yr biggest problem is that you love having problems

Trixietreat: you use them as an excuse to avoid work

Yerbluetoy says: wow. deep.

Trixietreat: you’re greedy you want it all

Yerbluetoy says: how old are you again

Trixietreat: you want to get away with murder

Yerbluetoy says: damn straight.



gungirlz

It trips me out how even the most so-called cutting edge, radical shit eventually gets boxed-up and fixed with a fancy label and sold in mass quantities, plopped out of an assembly line like donuts or tampons . Here in Amsterdam, the coffeeshops are a business, just like any other. There are a couple different flavors--the Rasta Bob Marley spots, the "futuristic" techno spots that also sell candy bars and fruit juice, the loud Rock N' Roll spots, and the "generic hip-hop/older brother's living room/this is also a bar and pick-up spot with a TV to watch soccer"spots. I guess it was an in-depth study of the market that yielded these results--polls taken of the "typical smoker", worldwide. Man, all I know is that I don't go for any of that shit. It's not that I don't like Marley or rock music, or the future, or sports on big screen TVs...I just can't stand the packaging. It depresses me. I'm not against consumer culture. I've never contemplated throwing a brick through a Starbucks window, but for fuck's sake, the whole point of smoking (at least for me) is to get on that other level, away from this whole flat as hell life, where everything's in two dimensions--the monitor and the TV, rows and lows of flickering windows with nothing behind them...

The Mind Elevate: I want to rise above all these radiowaves broadcasting rules and information. I'm sick of food in boxes.

When I'm high I dream of making something beautiful--the kind of overwhelming beauty that comes from a multitude of detail and perspectives--I want to create a world onto itself, like a battle scene from the 18th century painted on a room-wide, ceiling-tall canvas.

It takes years to even begin to get down one instant--a single rearing horse is a seperate study...I want to make notes in a sketch book of the faces I see in the street...A man at the market who has a "soldierly countenance". I want to work, work, work on something, one thing, for years at a time instead of all these half-assed, quick, one-off projects I find myself doing.

There was this one coffeeshop I really liked--The Tweede Kamer (Second Room). It was a tiny little place on a side street off Koningsplein. The sign outside was a play on a tiny blue postage stamp, the kind you stick on when you just come up short. Inside there were old Russian intellectuals and neighborhood guys stopping in for a quick puff before lunch. On the weekends, a local intramural soccer team made up mostly of African guys would crowd the place after practice, throwing out looks to the few ladies in the place. The weed was amazing and so was the coffee. There were plenty of decks of cards lying around. And dominoes and newspapers. No one bothered me as I stared into space.

I went in there when I first got to the city and immediately I realized something was different. The postage stamp sign was still there, but inside, the tiny, framed black and white photos that used to crowd the walls were gone. Instead of gypsy music or wailing sitars a live Jill Scott album played. Thinking it was just me, I ordered a spliff and sat down to puff. Two minutes later I was rushing for the toilet. They had rolled that shit with some harsh, stale ass tobacco that made my stomach do flip-flops. When I was done polluting the place, I came up to the counter to ask "what the fuck" which is when I saw the little stack of biz cards. "Coffeeshop Dampkring", they said, with some pseudo rasta graphics floating around.

"New place--my first coffeeshop!" the guy behind the counter told me, when he saw me examining one of the cards.

"Here," he said, and he handed me a clear plastic tube. "This is a new thing, you put your joint in it when it's still lit. Then you close the top and it goes out immediatly. No smell, no fuss--and you don't lose anything by stamping it out in an ashtray."

I nodded and put the tube in my pocket. I was confused and still sick to my stomach. I walked along the canals and watched the ducks. Later on, when I was looking around for some change, I pulled out the tube. "Dampkring" was printed all along the bottom in some ridiculous wavy "stoner" font.

...and to think I told Jamie it was a cool place.

The tubes aren't a bad idea though.

"Sumo Pop" would make a good coffeeshop name.

Turned to steel in the great magnetic field

(Iron Man)

If I died from a coke overdose in a shower in Amsterdam while listening to Black Sabbath's "Iron Man" on a tiny waterproof Philips radio (with surprisingly good bass), but by the time the aging hippies who were putting me up found my stiffening corpse the song had changed to Sheryl Crow's "Leaving Las Vegas" would that still qualify as a fucking cool way to go?

Just Because You're Paranoid...

Hey Sterling,

The whole fucking site was busted: archives, links, comments...I had to reapply the template, some content might be lost for good...now do you want to try and tell me that someone's not fucking around with my shit?

A message to my hacker:

Listen Bitch. This is my world, my pearl. You come up into my piece and I'm going to get extra-deep in yours. Navy Seal style, K?

Diabolical: I cherish the moment to perish opponents.



I was walking down the street constantly bumping into the sleep.



I think I've got no choice but to act retarded today.

it's up to me now to turn on the bright lights...

(Durer)

There's sand in the back of my skull. Right there, in that three finger-wide indentation where the neck begins. It goes, "Swish, swish" like a fucking bean bag everytime I turn to look over my shoulder. Something's up with my eyesight as well. Behind me, the world has a slight red tint and in front of me it's blue. That means I must be the white. I'm a part of a magical flag; a magical color sandwich sold the world over in thinly laminated cardboard boxes...too bad there's a real distaste for Americans over here. I feel like the stink at a dinner party when someone secretly passes gas. Guess you could say my accent really cuts the cheese. Everyone at the table wrinkles their noses and shifts uncomfortably in their seats, but no one says a word.

I don't admit to anything--I'm just passing through; the situation is not of my making. I only read the papers like everyone else. My Dutch friends want to know if Americans are really as pro-war as they seem. They sit in their brightly colored plastic chairs and spread thick yellow butter and chocolate sprinkles on their toast and look up at me with big round eyes. (You've got those phaser eyes) They don't get any news of American anti-war protests and are surprised to hear about how many have taken place. Their leaders are fine-tuning and bullshitting like anyone else, working hard at keeping whole populations in the dark--meanwhile they've taken apart their guns and are giving them a good oiling. One thing that's clear is that something is going to happen. I thought maybe that feeling was only in the States, but it's here as well. Inevitably, my friends want to argue about the situation. They're old hippies and founding members of the Dutch anti-apartheid movement. They want to smoke and gesticulate and figure things out. It's all too much for me so I excuse myself and go out to watch the ducks on the Amstel River.

Everything aches. I'm popping Nurofen by the handful, but it doesn't make a dent in the pain. Old ladies pass on bikes; kids wearing baggie jeans smoke hash in a huddle and snicker at the passer-bys. Germans in their fancy eyewear, the French with their too-thin tailored jackets, the Brits with their bad skin and fly away hair. Americans looking lost but happy...all these groups, within which there are sub-groups, made-up of families and couples and friends looking for a good time. Where do I fit in? (Why do you come here? And why do you hang around?) I slip into a movie theater, I get on and off trams. No one tells me what to do. Last night I drank half a bottle of Jack and several pints of beer. I puked up the entire contents of my stomach in a rain soaked gutter near the Stadhuis. A police car idled on the corner. Inside the pigs were laughing their heads off as I lost my balance and swung violently from side to side. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and shuffled over to the passenger side door. I banged repeatedly on the window with an open palm.

"Why don't you stop me?" I demanded. "Why don't you put an end to it all?"

The window rolled down and one of the cops stuck his head out. I remember being impressed by his baby-face. He had a fresh crew cut and razor burn. He asked me where I was staying.

"I don't know," I answered. "I don't know how to get back home."

His partner leaned over baby-face's shoulder. For a long time he didn't do anything and then he slowly took out a long pad and clicked open a pen. I saw myself reflected in his mirrored shades. It was at that moment that I realized the party had reached its final, most humiliating stage: I was officially the girl with puke breath and cum in her hair.

"I just need a Heineken," I told them, as they ushered me into the back seat. "Just een pintja, first OK...a real quick one...?"

There was no response. The car jumped forward, spraying water in every direction.

I'm the boy, who's learned to enjoy, invisibility...


pink haired girl eases my troubled basehead nerves.