A series of short stories each exactly the size of a tweet.
Six guys look right at us walking down a 2am Brooklyn street. I put my arm around her and take an early turn. I hear footsteps follow. Fuck.
My speed date sips her drink, waiting for me to start. “One word: Pokemans.” My friend across the room chokes, laughing. My date: unamused.
At the bar feeling uneasy about common problems when a squawking drunk demands attention. I give him a left cross. He probably deserved it.
Then I Disappear
I sneeze and miss the Long Island princess blow a stop sign in front of me. The last thing I realize is not everyone gets to die like Shane.
She has a mole on the small of her back. After four years feeling that little imperfection I started to love it. Turns out it was malignant.
I felt Italian picking the figs the ladies couldn't reach earlier, when I learned how quickly fruit turns to sugary balls filled with bees.
The Hot One
The sound of her voice mail punches me straight in the face. I never thought a woman who looked like her would be too annoying to call back.
Sprint times are pretty good for 27. But all I can think of is that they're slightly slower than 26. Suddenly, suicide seems like an option.
She and I reach for the same coin on the Penn Station floor and crash heads, the way a movie character meets his wife. We smile and walk on.
With each step up Bakshi's Everest I can hear the shrill cries of every session musician and club singer falling back down. I like the odds.
I see her across the track with headphones in, iPad on and the world shut off. She didn't hear the man behind her, nor did she hear me yell.
“You'll be fine,” the admitting nurse responds to my tension. I smile and shrug. “Now, what's your preferred religion?” Oh come the fuck on.
With a running start I slide down a railing to the subway floor. In a city that sees nothing I run in to a wall of looks asking why. 'Cause.
I'm facing the speed bag for the first time since the injury. I don't miss a beat as I knock the derelict stand off the wall and on my head.
While Your Body Decays
The ringing timer indicates my hipster dinner is done. I've come to enjoy Ezekiel Bread in what can only be described as Stockholm Syndrome.
The guy in front of me buys a $6 power ball ticket. “The expected value is -$5.80, asshole,” I shout. That'll show him for being irrational.
The scent of fresh cookies moves lithe through the house. “I would fuck that smell.” Sometimes I say things and think I should be locked up.
I feel blood and asphalt and know I'm alive. The cat I tried to save from traffic does not feel as lucky. Would have felt good if it worked.
She gives me a smirk and a full shot of her cream green eyes as she picks up the game controller, cutely unaware that I play to fucking win.
All alone in a train full of people I belt out some Levon Helm. They think I'm drunk or just crazy but oh, they don't know the shape I'm in.
Only Gets Worse
“Lestat, stop it, this instant,” I hear a pudgy mom yell at her son, using a name he's apparently had since birth. People are fucking awful.