hey, man. i need your help.

hook me up with a plot for the film i'm doing today. i was supposed to come up with something but in the midst of the complete collapse of my personal life i totally forgot. my boy y&h and i are going to front like terrence malick and shoot during the "magic hour", that shimmering oasis of time, also known as twilight, in which the sun and the stars share a sky and light falls in fat, heavy beams across the hair and shoulders of the afterwork crowd.

terrence malick directed badlands, which is one of the best movies ever. can you imagine the production values needed if you're only going to film for one hour out of the day? jesus.

fuck it, folks. i know you've got the goods. porno is fine, but keep in mind i won't have someone to fuck, as i'm the only actor. y&h will be minding the camera and besides we tried sleeping together years ago and it didn't work.

hurry please it's already 3pm here in neu yuk.

remember the magic hour is only one hour long.

if y&h and i pick yr plot we'll give you mad credit and when i get famous you'll probably get rich.

i'll be sending the DVD out with the mix to all you lucky people who gave me your address.

oh and when i said to check your mail next week you knew i really meant the week after next, right?

right.

TOASTEDBOY, here, getting the biggest high possible...

these motherfuckers won't leave. fitz is pissed, he said he's going out for coffee and when he gets back...man, you could see the dot dot dot hanging in the air. pregnant punctuation. whatever. i'm rolling joints and sending them across the room, not caring if one of these motherfuckers has herpes, not caring if the little fatties come back to me at all.

i've got money in the bank i can still get high...

OK, maybe not, but i've got infinite drug karma, party people.

like, i've done some skeezy things, but i never skimmed off a bag i was holding, and i only cut with a low-grade bag from my fag at dick's, which itself might be buffed up, but that's on someone else.

baby powder is some evil, abrasive shit when you put it up your nose.

anyway, go check out a real blog--seen

fake blues

when you need it sometimes.

you know the blow is almost gone when you're arguing over ten dollars and you hear your cell phone ringing even when it's not.

everywhere i look it's spotlight silver

my gaze so over-bright, it burns a hole straight through the night

(rain come down)

i'm so horny and fed-up, i swear.

this is the song she lit the flag on fire to.

cat's blues
by will oldham
(from Viva Last Blues)

i'm gonna turn my back for awhile, down
while nothing bad can or will befall
the lights welcome me all by myself
and the fires only bronze they do not burn

well do you understand girls where its going
i'll fuck girls, if there's violence to come
why, happiness, ohhhh happiness
they're crying, and their night has come

See them in the theatre, they're very, very real
Scold them when they come home, dirty, crying
Well, love, is forbidden outwardly
but inside there is no denying, oh

so, ???? boys, bury their hats
and they suffer while they waste and hurt
they are men who bow before us now
and i do not trust them, no
How many children are there like this?
Yeah, and how many will I serve?
o if i could have a clue what justice is
it would be more than i deserve, oh

o time is passing, come into my house
loot the pantries and muss the sheets
Have you found it useful, thinkin' here?
Your host will be ten miles, on back.

hey sterling,

the last time i heard this song we were in your room in the house in belgium, drunk and pissed off. remember the gnats that flew in your face? things had taken a turn for the worse, not unlike now. there were tons of people, standing around and drinking. (no one ever seemed to do anything in europe and i'm not talking about the fact that europe is filled with a lot of parties and a lot of drugs--so is everywhere else, i guess. what i mean is you never catch anyone in action--literally moving around...doing something...)

i remember staring at you, trying to figure it all out.

i'm tired of trying to explain, you said.

you flung open your closet, revealing a huge american flag hanging along the inside of the door.

"justice!" you growled, to no one in particular, as you knocked open your zippo and torched the entire bottom of our national symbol.

the crowd sterling and i ran with was mixed: europeans, american, africans. there were always a lot of arguments, political and otherwise, but in that drunken moment there was a unanimous cheer and stomping of feet as the flames jumped higher. i threw my stella bottle against the wall where it exploded into millions of pieces of cheap brown glass.

there were a few screams but then everyone cheered again.

the flames licked the ceiling and turned it brown. i looked across the room and saw that everyone's eyes were yellow and prehistoric.

and you, by the mostly empty closet, lighting a cigarette off the display...your conversation piece contribution to the party...

(you were james dean you were the acid zar the teenage criminal you weren't going down easy you would be put a stop to...)

we were wooping it up, you and i

then someone woke up and grabbed the fire extinguisher from the hall

then the days turned into years

my phaser eyes...phaser eyes...

you won't be frightened by the real thing after the show.


IDEA

this site illustrates one of my central graffiti tenets: it doesn't have to be complicated to be effective.



this inspires me to rinse off the old stencils and get out there and deface...

stickers are great, too. it's what the fifth tray on a copy machine was made for. i don't need to tell you to have your hustle on. send some wrinkled scrap paper through and then bitch and whine when it jams, saying, that's my master copy for art class, oh, man, look at it now, what the fuck am i going to do...blah, blah, blah...fake tears if it's necessary until they give you that shit for free.

fuck kinkos.

the windmills of the google of my mind

yo. these days, when i think of l.a. i think of tony pierce. it just fucking happened: i thought about really tall white platform shoes which made me think of really retarded white poodles which made me think of l.a. which made me think of tony. the pony. isn't that just wild? the guy's managed to insinuate himself into my terms of reference. he's a part of my fucking umwelt. damn, that's deep! i mean, it's true that i'm so high right now that i'm not sure if it's l.a. or L.A. or LA, but still.

This morning the keyboard was covered in an avalanche of sticky blank CDs and twisted, empty sheets of rolling paper doused in whiskey. I don’t know what happened to the mix, it’s not on the hard drive, which really sucks because baby, that shit was golden. It was the soundtrack to the French movie in my mind, in which all the characters lounge around an empty, scarred swimming pool wearing autumn sweaters and chain-smoking and nothing much happens but everything changes.

It’s a citywide, cinema scope—an invisible mix for an invisible age.

I’ve got the music video but I’m missing the music.

Not to worry, party people. It’s upstairs somewhere, bubbling with the cannabis infused proteins just under the surface.

I’m gonna work it on out.

Those of you who sent me your addresses so long ago start checking your mail next week.

Gimme your address if I don’t have it and you want something from me.

(sorry Stacey, no tennis balls)

G.E.T. L.I.V.E.

Aiiight?



my hero

mixtape


radiorockstars


i'm deep into this mixtape. and by mixtape i mean mixCD, obviously. we live in the digital age. information moves fast. pro-liferating like nuclear radiation. laser shit lights up individual air molecules in specific patterns--giving objects you see and hear that special shimmer.

samsung, you don't stop.

sure the technology's great and all but c'mon already the beats on CDs sound like shit. they disintegrate at the end--the tops of their heads blowing off like dandelion fuzz. it makes me feel kinda sick, party people. sick in my ears--the inner canals vibrating with distortion. i've got to yank off my headphones and take a walk, clear my head a little. maybe even say that's all for now, but then, the next time it rains or i feel like dancing alone in my head, you best believe i'll be back with my case logics, feelin for the next track.

i think im going to end up dividing the mix into several cds.

i'll send out different parts of the whole to you all.

the party people


sub\ver\sion

I like hanging out with Jamie. I like how he’s funny without being sarcastic. I like how when I’m around him I’m that way too.

I wish I had the patience to take real pictures. Then I’d be like him, capturing halos of light blossoming off the corners of skyscrapers, or glowing butterflies alighting on the heavy heads of springtime flowers or funny signs or eclectic trash or whatever happened to capture my fancy, wherever I followed my feet.

I’d pull my camera out on friends sitting hip and pretty in bar booths because if I was like Jamie I’d have plenty of hip and pretty friends waiting for me in dark and comfortable bar booths.

He knows my real name.

He knows how this whole thing started—he knows how important Sterling and Fitz are to me.

Every time I see him I tell him a little more and it feels like nothing, not a big deal in the least. When we say goodbye, I get on the train and ride it for a long time with my eyes closed.

history repeats as ciphers become complete...

(word to the drum beat)

The wind sounds just like we remembered, just like we had hoped…Everyone and everything is bathed in a supernatural light. The old drunk with his beer by the mailbox, the Polish mother with the swollen eyes and transparent vinyl babushka tied tightly around her head. Her flaxen haired son runs ahead into a rush of airborne newspaper. His arms wave and the paper birds flap their wings. He is an angel and the sky is a bell; it knocks back and forth, ringing relentlessly. I want to blast a bullet through the top, just like in that U2 song. I feel everything coming together and falling apart, like the magic number itself, splitting and dividing in the sky.

The new artist works on several art projects at once. The different works are usually united by a shared aesthetic that bounces back and forth between mediums. It’s like a game of hot potato with one player. Maybe the aesthetic was derived from a love of skateboards—or the way the chorus of a really good pop song makes he or she feel when it’s over.

Par Example, in Raymi’s case there’s her blog, “raymi the minx” and her love of karaoke—two completely separate, but (we venture to say) highly related forms of expression.

The new artist works in fits, staying up for three days straight like a crystal meth head.

The new artist passes out in a perfumed heap on a stranger’s bed, only to proclaim, loudly, “I wasn’t sleeping,” upon waking two hours later from a deep slumber.

The new artist is a counterfeiter—a simulacrum, The Matrix® itself.

The new artist grew up surrounded by a wealth of contradictions, i.e., the overflowing bounty of the suburban wasteland.

The new artist believes ordering-in is a lifestyle choice, best exemplified by answering the door wearing only socks.

The new artist is not a hippie. He/she does not like to share drugs

The new artist is not a talk show host, but they might have been a radio shock jock—secretly, in high school.



The new artist is sick of lip service, professionalism and contracts.

The new artist doesn’t know for sure who is real.

The new artist understands that all art is always already business art, but that one must be in a constant rebellion against this state of affairs. The best, most effective way to rebel is by making art.

The new artist wakes up every morning butch and bruised.

The new artist is trying to create a place to replace the one they never had. It’s a site in-transit. The address is in the TV Guide, on the coffee table. You have to surf to get there.

The new artist has: profiles, tags, resumes, transcripts, domain names, business cards, cell phone clips, subscriptions, file folders, passwords, I.D. cards, vocoders, clarinets, headlights, trick candles, and swollen eyes.

Purple brake lights
Cry me a river
Purple rain, purple rain

The new artist is making music videos without the music.

The new artist checks his or her Shakespeare swatch and sees that yes indeed, the time is out of joint.

The new artist heads south from the metropolis to get some shooting done.

The new artist sits at the kitchen table under the bright lights, just before the rain. The air is very still and flat. Everything stands out—especially sounds. An ordinary dinnertime conversation between a young mother and her child ripples up the air duct and through the open window. The new artist can hear them speak to each other in exquisite, gut-wrenching clarity—each kind word from the mother, each little giggle from the child is as pronounced as a fresh welt on tight, unblemished skin.

The new artist doesn’t take what’s given. He/she is happy to live in a city without a country.



In London, and Tokyo and New Yawk and the sewers of Paris…

(the time is out of joint)

La Haine! BRAND TRUEBOY!

(fuck the police, f-f-f-fuck the police)

It doesn’t matter where you are—it’s always about having enough money and having enough drugs and looking good in the right pair of jeans and making music where the music needs to be made…

The new artist takes drugs to write posts to take drugs to.

(five to four, just can’t take it no more)

The new artist thinks to him/herself: “yeah, yeah, yeah…star, star, star.”

AND

“are you ready? Cuz here we go…”

The new artist smokes weed and holds a three-hundred dollar Italian pen like a cigarette.

The new artist complains about these dark times:

“I wait, I wait, I wait for something to happen, I’m pacing, station to station, snapping my fingers, changing my style…

(smackmybitchup, changemypitchup)

…I’ve seen it all, I’ve seen it all from the yellow windows of the evening train…”

The new artist has a little song that grows.

The new artist has many nicknames but often signs paper things with an “x”.

The new artist understands that first principles apply equally to the production that is the thing in itself as well as to the production of the production.

Then new artist knows that flashbacks are a real thing, precipitated by a sudden blue flash and a vision of a long-dead friend eating a tuna sandwich.

(“Yo, money. Smell this—does this smell bad to you?”)

Your old faithful shoes so casually tossed off just a few hours earlier have turned into rats scurrying around the corners of your eyes…

Go with it…breathe…accept…

The new artist has learned that big, bad anxiety comes when one doesn’t give in to the nausea…to the pain…

(just by giving in, we open up a whole new way of being)



party people

the pleasure whips
the hollow tips.


virtual institute of crappy arts

new age

Nothing is true except for the foot notes.

Nothing is finished except for the blue prints.

Nothing is perfect except for the on-screen kiss between the famous, dying celebrities.


miss piggy

worldnewyork

She said I could:



We were at Fitz’s place, waiting out the rain. Sterling showed off with some headstands. She brought her legs up easily, with two neat kicks. Fitz and I watched as her shirt became untucked. I had the same passing curiosity as when she got into her bikini at South Hampton and Puerto Rico. I stared at the muscles running up and down her small body, my gaze flitting from this to that until it ended up at the site of her missing fingers. I noticed how that hand was turned to the side, the remaining three fingers spread far apart in order to compensate, balance-wise.

Nice bra, Fitz said, referring to her torn and twisted sports thingy.

She came down immediately.

“Thanks”, she said as she stuffed her shirt back into her jeans. Her face was red from being upside down.

“Sterling, what the fuck. Why don’t you put your picture on the goddamn site?” I said.

“What?” Sterling asked. She was back on all fours with her head on the floor and her ass in the air, ready to kick up.

“I mean, you’re so fucking good looking.”

“It’s absolutely true,” Fitz chimed in. “You’re very pretty, darling.”

“Give me a break,” she said, dismissively. She never accepted compliments, especially if they were about her appearance. We watched as she kicked up again.

“They're dying to see what you look like,” I said, pulling at a frayed bit of upholstery on the armrest of my easy chair.

"Especially the ladies."

“Yes. They’d like to have an image to refer to when they use their vibrators,” Fitz said, crossing his leg and snapping his lighter in front of his cigar.

Sterling laughed and came out of the headstand. She sat on her heels and pushed her bleached bangs out of her face.

“They know what I look like. I took that picture of the Homie to show them.”

“C’mon, you don’t really think you look like some 25 cent toy figurine?”

“Of course I do--you even said it yourself. I got it out of the machine on Grahm and you said, Oh, shit, it’s a mini Sterling even before I took it out of the plastic bubble.”

“Yes, but I didn’t really mean that it looked like you.”

“I think what Sterling is saying is that she showed the people a picture of her plastic homie soul,”Fitz explained.

“Yeah,” Sterling said, emphatically. “And my hand was in it, too.”

I rolled my eyes.

“It’s your other hand that the people want to see, Sterling.”

“Oh, what the hell?” she said, standing up. She walked across the room and stood before me with her arms folded.

“Give me another cigarette.”

“Not until you let me take a picture of you.”

“C’mon, give me a cigarette first.” She leaned over and pinched my upper thigh, trying to feel for the pack.

I grabbed her by the wrist and held her off.

“Please? Why can’t I take a picture of you?” I said, in my best “good girl” voice.

“No!” she said, trying the same thing on the other side with her other hand, which I also grabbed and successfully held back.

“I’m still stronger than you,” I said.

That pissed her off. She grunted and heaved herself forward with her legs. After struggling for several minutes, she exhaled loudly and fell against me.

“Ha!” I said, pushing her off.

“OK,” she said, staring at me wickedly.

“You win.”

Fitz grabbed the camera from the bookshelf.

“I think right now would be great,” he said, fiddling with the buttons on the side of the camera. “With your face flushed and your hair tousled.”

“No,” Sterling said, staring deeply into my eyes.

“Not the face.”

“Why not, darling?” Fitz whined.

“I’m not ready. None of us are.”

“What are you talking about?” I said. “My picture’s there everyday!”

“Well, it’s not going to be my face instead,” Fitz said.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Sterling said, her eyes still pointed fixedly at mine, as though she were trying to hypnotize me.

“The picture will still be of me.”

She smiled and reached down and pulled off her shirt. I jumped and moved back in my seat.

(only a true friend knows how to turn the tables so quickly...)

She leaned over me--smiling, her eyes shining.

“It just won’t be of my face.”

oh man, just when I think, that’s it, fuck this super sized TV and its snotty-ass credit card thin remote, I flip to the nuttiest shit: thousands of pink and orange crabs wobbling down a steep cliff on their spindly, prehistoric legs. They looked like an invading alien army—I found them sickly fascinating, especially when the narrator pointed out the zillions of eggs hanging from each of their bellies. The pregnancies looked like gigantic wads of ear wax caked with sand, ready to fall off at any second in an unsightly clump. These lady crabs were sick and dehydrated from their long, dangerous journey. There were a couple of shots of them pausing on the cliff to dip their claws into puddles and thirstily suck the rainwater off the tips. Just beyond the cliff roared the ocean, where they needed to lay their eggs. Although they were land crabs, and couldn’t swim, they were bound by a cruel evolutionary trick to lay their eggs in the ocean.

(See man, you're not the only one who's shit was fucked from the get-go)

Anyway, the goal for these crabs was to get as close as possible to the breaking waves without getting dragged in by the tide. Needless to say, it was pretty dramatic. The camera showed the winners scurrying back towards the cliff, weighing less, free from instinct’s heavy hand. The losers were stuck in the surf, their beady little eyes (which were nauseatingly human, btw) flashed in pain, their ragged claws flailed about uselessly.

I was simultaneously thrilled and disgusted. I wanted the crabs to make it and lay their eggs and at the same time I wanted a great chemical blast to come and extinguish their repulsive, cockroachness from this earth forever.

Way up high in my la-z-boy I felt like the god of those crabs. I checked my omnipotent disposition in my reflection on the TV screen. I practiced looks of benevolance and scorn.

I flipped the channels and landed on a grainy black and white home video of a high school talent show. The caption on the bottom flashed “EMINEM”, followed by “1990”. There he was, sauntering up and down the stage wearing a plain, non-designer hoodie (the kind that collects those little dingleberries every time you wash it) and a black ski mask over his face. That was a fucking genius touch, let me tell you. Black face without the black face. His eyes were bulging out of his head. Spit rained out of his mouth. He looked like somebody you’d have to take an aluminum bat to. Or shoot with a silver bullet. Although the sound was piss-poor, you could still hear that he was dope.

I don’t care what your feelings are regarding The Great White Hope, party people. It’s beside the point whether you think he’s nice or not (personally, I think he is)-- the lesson for this Friday afternoon is that you’ve got to be more than hungry if you want to make it. You’ve got to be fucking RABID.

mmmmmmk?


flagrant drips silver foam when she writes.

The Line

Ten minutes ago, on the L TRAIN:

I stared, fascinated, at the red Virgin bag hooked around the yuppie’s fat thumb. After teasing me with a quick peek inside, he pulled out the CD, gently edging it out of the bag as though it was something alive and horribly delicate. His eyes turned glassy with pleasure as he held his purchase out before him. I strained and eventually made out the title, The Best of Johnny Cash. He removed the shrink-wrap in slow motion, like an ant tearing apart a bug. He picked and ripped, dropping the plastic shards back into the red bag, rocking back and forth on his Hush Puppy heels. I closed my eyes and pictured the waves above me as the train hurtled beneath the East River. I imagined all sorts of evil things about him, just for fun, but it didn’t give me my usual kicks. Meanwhile, in my headphones Belle and Sebastian sang “There is misery, in everything I see, and all the people on t.v… After tea when life begins again, they’ll be happier than me…”


mist web

The whole sick mess started when I used my Swiss army knife to carve “TRUEBOY” into the window of a Belgian commuter train.

I had never done anything like it before. The safety glass offered a gritty resistance—it was like cutting into the outer skin of a raw onion.

That was during the time in my life when I was off on the sidelines.

I was in school, where the horny old crustaceans thought I was so great. They wrote letters on my behalf and sent them off to other crustaceans.

Every door is opening for you, my father said, at some ridiculous holiday dinner. I remember that his expression was stupidly wistful—I snorted back a laugh, right in front of his face.

I couldn’t believe that this was the sort of thing that was supposed to make me happy.

There was something else—something gnawing at my insides.

It wasn’t writing but it wasn’t not writing.

It was like I was thinking up poems that would be the advertising for products that didn’t exist. But I still wasn’t exactly sure how they should go.

(I’ll take you down the only road I’ve ever been down)

It clicked into place when I finished the name on the window. There it was, a jagged rendering of something that was deep inside of me, yet somehow outside as well. The name seemed to float over the moving backdrop of yellow skies and telephone wires, the flat, single story factories, orange roofed suburbs and bilingual billboards. I don’t know where it came from, I don’t know how I thought of it, what chemical, contextual combination scored the bull’s eye…

…I’d had a single Chimay, I was listening to Belle and Sebastian, I was smoking a Gaulouise, it was a little after five, my shoes were untied…

TRUEBOY: It was the name of the person I wanted to be, yet at the same time feared. It was the name of a lazy rebel, the ultimate tomboy, the sweet-as-hell MC…

…the sweet-as-hell MC…

That was the moment when everything changed forever.



mott cromby

everyone thinks that when they die, you'll be there to let them in

The Last

Pulling away from the 22nd Bay Parkway station

First there’s the cemetery—haphazard, endless

This is followed by the curving white monolith of an apartment building

That sticks out like bone over the exposed green of the playing fields.

Everything’s dulled by a deep set soot.

The river’s long since silted-up—the land around it bucked and wrinkled.

The Dutch were right to call it “broken”.

Brooklyn

The odor of food takes a long time to pass you by

Television antennas on thin silver rods

Are tilted towards Mars

While down below at the edge of the continent

There are cigarettes to soothe the weak.

party people are you with me where you at?

i'm telling you it's always the ones who annoy me, the ones who get under my skin...

challenges--they're the ones i feel like fucking.

(if i feel like fucking anyone)

sex is a game, it's all so tiring

i wish life could be a dirty dream

(sh-boom)

If I could open your eyes to the truth in the mud

If you would tell me I'm the only one that you fuck

Life could be a dream, sweetheart

(sh-boom)

(sh-boom)

on quiet nights like this...

i'd kill for a small sense of certainty

there's an ache in my lower gut that won't go away

maybe i'm dying

it would make sense--

my mind is filled with fantasies...

green smoke and blue fantasies.




i really like theartpepper's use of bold. i'm all about emphasis. when i wrote my thesis on heidegger i ended up using italics to differentiate between different uses of being that i was using in the same sentence. my flemish promoter flipped: whaaaht! he bellowed, you theeink that just by adding some i-talicks here and there like rose i-cing that you can make a valid phil-lew-sophical point? give me a break! i don't theeink i've ever seeeen something so LA-zy.

it's because i'm american, i told him, enjoying the comical effect of his eyes remaining bulged out like that. i helped myself to one of his belgas, lit-up and leaned back.

i'm always looking for the quick way out.

(there was a point to this story--something integral that i wanted to tell you, but it seems to have slipped from the no stick pan and exploded into egg white batter abstract expressionism all over the counter. sorry.)




izzlepfaff!

Everything in here is TRUE.

Further to what I said about what i'm looking for in a lover:

they should know how to act like a baby. i like a man who pouts and throws conniption fits.

as long as they're not about me.

it's good to be a baby during sex too.

slobbering and begging and wetting your pants.





garbage thoughts

i want to go to the roof

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yes

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eeerrrr

it's like autumn

--- Original Message -----
From: Jamie
Date: Tue, 2 Sep 2003 13:29:17 -0400
To: trueboy@graffiti.net
Subject: where are you?

> are you in New York?
> were you ever really in Puerto Rico?
> are you still?
>
> -Jamie
>



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Importance : normalhighlow



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I like to go fast.



I like cocaine and coffee, even though they make me sick.



I imagine myself going for a drive with you, out there, where you live.



Where you know the highways and all the little late night stores.



The places where you can disappear...

Rock Me Amadeus

The good thing about short term memory loss is that you'll remember whatever it is, eventually.


I like people who are distracted.

I like it if you have something else going on.

If you're oddly attractive, a creature of habit with perfect skin.

Noble in your darkness...

Quiet and lascivious and hollow.


verdancy

The basketball players are like me: they don't leave the hotel. Everything we need is right here. Things come in and out on shiny carts pushed by porters. If need be they also come through the back door but in the end it's the same thing. In and out. Consumption and creation. A big hotel is like a biosphere or some other kind of autonomous environment experiment. You get to watch things grow, flourish, exist flatly and fall apart--eventually or all at once.

6AM, Sunday Morning: I was having a drunken breakfast on the terrace in front of the "fantasy" pool. A famous basketball player covered with tatoos and glistening with coco butter went on about his evening's exploits to a table which included myself and a pair of idiot twin italian brothers.

"So bitch wanted to suck my cock, she got on her knees and was like, please, please, please let me suck your cock, and i said, bitch no way you're suckin my cock. You're dome piece is just too damn ugly to look upon! I was like, maybe I'll fuck you up the ass though. A little back door delivery. And you know I'm like fuck that condom shit, y'all. I like that shit raw. Bitch gets pregnant, it's like, too bad bitch."

He spit into his coffee and knocked over what was left of his cristal. Meanwhile, the italian brothers gasped, 'yeah yeah yeah' and laughed like monkees. I looked at them looking up at him in love and admiration and I realized this was one of those times when I'm just one of the guys and not thought of as something to be fucked, at least not at the moment.

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

I leaned back, scratched my left tit and watched a scrawny pigeon with no feathers on its neck poke around behind the basketball player's chair. Talk about liberation.