Jimmy Chen

This was before the internet, kids, when kids back then went to great and precarious lengths to acquire pornographic material.

She was reading a book at the register — in the contented aura of her own attractiveness, it seemed — slowly masticating on something hard enough to be erotically heard from the aisles throughout which I wandered.

In a “real world” non-cartoon context, Beavis would likely have been prescribed a stimulant (Adderall, Ritalin) for his ADHD, maybe coupled with a mood stabilizer (Xanax, Lithium) and even an anti-psychotic (Seroquel).

Walking past a coffee stand, I noticed that the Barista — who was a woman with mannish mannerisms, obviously queer — had a thin mustache which on a “natural” man would have looked pervy.

Without God, a partner, five-year plan, or any plan, there’s little in life to consider save one’s premature mortality.

For those who believe they are lonely, whose recent break ups or absent relationships give them something to be sad about, a visit to the cat food section at PetCo may make you feel chipper, for they are populated by special kinds of sad women (colloquially known as “cat ladies”) who stare deeply — purrhaps past, confronting a dark manless void — into the very items (feather on a stick; toy mice; scooper, calming spray) for which they disorientingly came.

Aesthetically the look and feel of an overstuffed Falafel.

You buy vegetables at farmer’s market — carrying their ostentatiously exposed stems and leaves in an artistic canvas tote bag purchased at Etsy — and render them into soup that day while listening to NPR solemnly address contemporary issues.

I married into a Filipino family for sexual availability of the sister, to which I would not have been blood-related, and discovered the matriarch only used plastic cups and paper plates, like there were towers upon towers of Dixie plasticware everywhere.

Imagine a more pensive and less adventurous Jack Kerouac being not necessarily “on the road,” but on the toilet.

Lil Wayne, a permanent tear tattoo marking its descent, “need[s] a Winn-Dixie grocery bag full of money,” and I wonder why he doesn’t just drop it in a CD or IRA account, whose interest rates alone could buy a new grill

I walk over to my desk, on which both devices are presently being charged, and release each duplicate notification by going into their respective mirror Twitter apps and confirming what I already know to be true, that one of my followers — as corroborated in a tab on my MacBook Air (7) — had favorited a tweet, which I find affirmation in for 20-25 seconds.