Jimmy Chen

If there’s a Great Band No One Has Ever Heard Of, then I’m sure I’ll hear about it within two months, or six months, on Pitchfork, or Spotify, or freaking VH1 a year later. I don’t care. I don’t mind being one year behind. Duh, that’s what “timeless” means.

I felt neutral toward him; “just another bro,” I thought, imagining bros growing on trees in an opulent bro orchard, sprayed with cologne like pesticides.

This morning, for about an hour, Twitter was “so down” even the Fail Whale was missing. When a website is still able to present their specially designed “down” page, you know it’s still sort of working.

Because doors open at 8:00, which means it really opens at 8:27, given the ingratiating oddly entitled casualness of these kinds of chronically latent events…

Buy enough Pringles to fill a kiddie pool. Fill a kiddie pool with Pringles. Get into a bathing suit, as if one were to wade inside a kiddie pool. Get inside the kiddie pool face-first and begin chewing. I think you know where this is going.

The person in the ticket booth will most likely be a recent art school graduate with some piercings in their face and problematic canvases in their studio. They will shove your ticket at you. Just bow your head to their unhappiness.

Technology looping in my condo, ears plugged in and bouncing daintily with the muse, I was also at my laptop tending to the usual open tabs when I realized that the song I was currently listening to had been posted on my timeline, for all my friends to see and judge.

I get out of bed to the syncopation of various cracks and pops in my body, as if my skeleton still wanted to dance with me after being rejected at a party.

Counter-culture 26-year-old man with ear gauges, thin mustache, and a large skull tattooed on his sternum being critical of latte foam design Barista, who has a recent art degree, sincerely poured.

The unblinking stare of my skull underneath the thin bloody sheath of my face managing a grimace, if only granted an expression.

Herein lies all the emotionally vulnerable emails you sent to failed romances to which have not received a response (though part of you still waits), emails composed in bed and impulsively sent around 1:45 a.m., you probably naked.

Yet it somehow felt rude, like this human being I had formed a relationship with over the years, whose paramount life experiences were loyally transcribed and reciprocated in chat, did not withstand the match between himself and my daily crap.

I claim my seat with my bag, place my coffee considerately equidistant from all the other cups on the middle table, swear to God one day I’m going to run away into the woods, and sit down. All the outlets are taken.

Perhaps a less sad man, or better person, would honor yoga by restraining himself from the exact petty ties of pedestrian vulgarity from which practitioners attempt to escape through this very practice.

Tonight I’ll go back to all my likes, like a sick dating site only I’m taking part in. It’s easy to obsess about strangers. You just pour nothingness outward, as if, through some accident in the universe, that very act could somehow fill you.

For every bubble that came up, a thought bubble came up in my head. What am I doing here? I envy people who seem able to place themselves inside a jacuzzi and have their problems melt away; where my problems, it seems, just brew.

Regular sexual intercourse two or three times a week, usually Thursday nights after The Office and on the weekend; Saturday date night dinner at ethnic fusion restaurant whose assimilation of Southeast-Asian or Latin flavors one earnestly abridges with “wow.”

My condominium is spinning. I may have vomited a little bit inside my mouth, which I intuitively swallowed like some money shot in the ongoing auto-erotic porn of my life.