Jeffrey Ellinger

“Then the worst happened, that big, dark, hunky boy, the only one there huge enough for me, who had been hunching around over women, and whose name I had asked the minute I had come into the room, but no one told me came over and was looking hard in my eyes and it was Ted Hughes.”

It was strange, yes, but I liked that the main character would do all that if it meant saving the one he loved. It reinforced the hopeful idea I had that there are no boundaries for a person whose heart is willing.

But even if Garrison Keillor wasn’t her sexy photographer, that ass, I was so glad to see it when I opened my sexy flip phone. For a time, her butt was my very own prairie home companion.

I miss you, Aubz. I hate saying it but I do. I miss the way you would laugh at one of your own jokes then croon about a girl who dumped you in the third grade then hold me as you told us where you started from again. I want to tell you that never gets old.

Writers are now either Ivy League Iowa Workshop heels or self-promoting mushroom-taking, internet addicts who write about a pretend drug problem so they can write about something other than using their parent’s money to live.

Is monogamy just outdated and puritanical and we need a new young generation to reject for it to come into the mainstream? Is it simply jealousy keeping us from getting to know other people? Do I sound like Carrie Bradshaw right now?

I am prone to get turned down for less than what, and I am dying.

Which is the endgame for anyone with Twitter, that they would do well enough outside of it that they would never need to use it again.

I wish I knew more about balancing equations or gold mining or betting on horses. But my specialty is solipsistic blog posts, and I’m afraid it will always be.

I was once taken to see the baby chicks. They moved like a blanket of fluff. They sounded like a million yellow phones all getting text alerts at once.

Hire me and I’ll start following all of you on Twitter. And when I come to New York we’ll have a drink and laugh and share many inside jokes.

26. You miss out on meeting a variety of failed artists, mostly male writers.

And I guess that’s depressing, but watching football on TV is better than watching it live so I don’t know why it has to be so different for traveling. I know it’s different, except, as Chuck Klosterman would say, when it isn’t.

But that probably won’t happen, or it will, who knows, life is a bunch of risks!

A fragile meatstick is born unto the world.

Jenny Slate, The Easter Parade, Pho…

Collectives, Online dating, Self-published fiction…

Date a guy who farts. Go to his place. Bring Yankee Candles, an oil reed diffuser and potpourri. Offer them as gifts. Say you always give flowery things to the ones you’re really interested in.