February 24, 2023
My ghost looks at my to-do list. “What is the meaning of this?” it says. The list does not respond because no sound occurs to the list. The list is not a brain with ears or instrument of any kind. Neither is my ghost yet my ghost keeps talking.
It looks at my browser history: “What is the meaning of this?”
“I am the monkey-mind of Org,”
February 21, 2023
I had either too much foreskin or too little. Finding out wasn’t my intention. I didn’t like looking at the thing and doctors made me nervous. Not necessarily because of the invasiveness, but because after the invasion, the nation building would begin: some saline suppository for urethral sounding maybe, or a cut-up job and post-surgery doohickey; or worse, there would be nothing wrong and this would just be my lot in cock.
February 18, 2023
It’s 3am, the night before the De Vere Ball. I’m tossing and turning in my bed, tormented by a deep philosophical question—who do I have to fuck to get Elon to tweet about Oxfordianism? I was never a party girl. In college, my social calendar was built around the Gilbert and Sullivan Society, and our performances of 19th century operettas in Rhode Island’s premiere senior centers. So imagine my surprise to find myself throwing a party hotly anticipated by Dimes Square’s crème de la crème,
February 17, 2023
I just saw something horrible. Something I would never have wanted to see, I promise you. It is something you can go to prison for having seen. When the police kick your door off its hinges one morning, you will explain through tears that it was a mistake, that you’re not like that. You will be invited to “tell it to the judge.”
I check the replies to the question I posted on Quora.com with my alt account: “What should I do if I accidentally saw an image online that was really disgusting and horrible and which I don’t support at all?”
Anonymous: You’re screwed.