You’re Weird!: Why You Be Lookin’ At Me Like Dat?!

“Lover, I don’t play to win. For the thrill until I’m spent.”
St. Vincent, The Strangers

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I like stories about young, confused people who come from broken homes and all sorts of other adverse conditions who then have to trudge through life with little or no insight or clue even as to what’s out there in front of them aided only by some shitty “education” they’ve rustled together to figure it out. Who marvel at scandal and grimace at conventional proceedings. Who view marriage as trite, who aren’t bashful at the sight of seeing stray dogs stuck together post-coitus behind the dumpster at Wal-Mart.

They share with us stories about how they spent their summers hiding in plain sight, the malaise of having to rely on public transportation, barnyard remedies for curing hangovers. And how being bougie felt the first time they tried it. In these stories the protagonists don’t hold hands on the first date—or get yogurt. They walk barefoot over cullet-lined urban waterway shorelines, click pigeons, or sever a right pinky finger underneath a rickety suspension bridge in the rain to see if it’ll grow back. They never even get to see their favorite indie band perform. At best, they get a muffled impromptu harmonica performance from the blind man in apartment 6F.

Disorganized is organized.

Stories where two warm bodies don’t treat sex as the finish line but rather the starting block. Foam. Whiskey. Plastic covered furniture. Wet socks. Inner thigh tattoos. Dank, smelly apartments. Uncomfortable silences & long stares. Morning-breath kisses. M&M’s.

Charter schools. Greyhound stations. Grandma’s bloody panties. Teaching English to strippers in the old Eastern bloc. Human piss in water bottles. Three page pullouts of Thai Ladyboys. A plum farm!—All of this so I can wink at myself in my bathroom mirror…

Because I can relate!

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