December 3, 2022
My buddy Grant and I always talk shit about this townie bar we always go to when we hang out, Ziggies. Ziggies is good, but we like to conflate it with a different bar nearby, the Cozy. I’ve seen two race riots there. During the first one my buddy Perez rescued me from getting decked by a pool cue when my stupid white ass tried to break up the fight that started it.
December 2, 2022
The first time Ruth got fingered, she was watching The Criterion Collection edition of Some Like It Hot in Sam’s basement.
Three of Sam’s fingers filled her, an amount that seemed silly, superfluous even, although Ruth didn’t say so. The fingering didn’t feel bad, but it didn’t feel good either as Sam’s fingers sporadically moved around inside her like the mildly gesticulating signs of a third base coach.
December 1, 2022
You started hanging out at the Storeroom in ‘94. It was a small, Seattle bar two blocks north of the Offramp with regular punk rock and grunge nights. Musicians flexed; you stage-dived from the bar. You’d never seen a jukebox with punk, grunge, metal, grindcore and Hank Williams for later at night. Sweet escape from the university scene, and a chance to rock out. Shep owned and tended the bar.
November 30, 2022
SUMMER, 1989
They fucked up. Plain and simple. The support staff unleashing the group-home crew out in the community unsupervised after only knowing each other for a weekend— two days, forty-eight hours, two thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes of intense rapport building and sad, sick, stories of abuse, torture, and abandonment— wound up being the worst thing they could have done.