Harris Sockel

Sometimes we fuck ourselves up. Sometimes we sell ourselves. Sometimes we get blown up. Sometimes we get put back together.

I was in that closet for ten years, and they were the best years of my life.

I will never stop lathering my soul in the sweet tang of a Pad See Ew.

Obama imagined writing a poem about this moment, and publishing it on a clandestine Tumblr under a pseudonym, and telling only Bo and perhaps his publicist’s gay assistant’s assistant.

Freedom is #hard.

This year, like every year, on the morning after Thanksgiving, I will go to jail.

In the supermarket yesterday, ten people said sorry by the protein.

Grey Poop: You are an introvert.

Take me out of this place. Bring a claw crane like in those machines at the seashore, and pick me up like I’m a stuffed seahorse.

If it’s a device, delete it.

Damn those kids with finished basements.

Don’t wait until the next aurora borealis and then (maybe) read, and then reply: “very thought-provoking!” Shoot me in the face.