The last time
I wore this pair of underwear, I got fucked
in the ass so deep they gave me deferred standing.
All I had to do to get a break from school
was explore the wilder side of campus life.
I actually don’t really know what to do
with all of this free time now. Work on my papers?
Who do I look like, April? Look,
we don’t all want to go
to law school and save the world from itself.
Some of us
just want to coast on our trust fund and see if that cute boy
from Kappa Sigma can go more than two rounds.
Is there a thing you do
that you feel annoys people?
Mine might be when I get caught for plagiarising.
It’s not like I don’t know how to write
an essay or develop an independent thought, which is probably
what bugs my profs the most. They’d love to trot me out
to their conferences, the model student, maybe wax a little
poetic about some school of thought that’s been out of vogue
for a few decades.
But it hurts my heart
to think about being a cog in the neo-liberal
North American university system.
So I cheat.
I cheat every chance I get because it feels better
to be subversive and get chastised, than get a medal
for being just another fuckboi.
My mom wonders how the hell I’m going to make a career
out of being such a shit-disturber. She tells me
that if I want to piss people off, I should stick
to my father’s tactics and shave my beard.
Maybe she’s right, but my chin
to take that kind of reality head on.
I’ve got my eye on this event happening
in two weeks: competitive cat herding.
It’s happening at the Coliseum.
Tickets are reasonably priced and come
with a complimentary adult beverage. The craziest thing
is that these dudes are actually professionals, no joke.
There’s a league with legit divisions and a playoff
and everything. Someone told me that the winner
of the championship game gets a year’s supply of free vegetables.
I wonder how you score a gig like that?
Sounds like a good way to meet people
and take them to bed—as long as you don’t mind the scratches.
I have only ever been to sex parties
that are positive; there’s no pressure
to slide it in if you’re feeling like a corpse.
it’s more about meeting nice people and
constructive discussions about why our dollar is really crappy.
That’s not to say that you can’t rip off
your clothes and get real “progressive”…if you know what I mean.
One time, this guy
I’d made eyes at across the room
at a few prior functions, just straight up tossed me into a wall.
He was aggressive.
A real animal.
Not the kind you would immediately
picture though, more like a
thirsty emu or maybe an iguana
with really dry skin: he drank me right the fuck up.
It got so wild I knocked out his fake tooth.
He didn’t even flinch. In fact, he never
even asked for it back—I still have it
in a leather pouch on my spice rack.
If I was ready to expand into different sectors
of adult life, I’d probably have his kid.
He really is just that good of a dude.
I guess this is what people mean by “timing is everything”:
I’m just not ready to restrict my bedroom to hockey pool transactions.
Even if his tongue is bifurcated.
My sister lives on a corner
where you can buy this stuff
that comes in a syringe, for 50 cents a milligram.
It’s hard not to go back to it.
I get the sense that if you embrace it once, a monogomous relationship
becomes mandatory. If it were a dollar, maybe it would be a different story.
As it stands, whenever I see all of these guys
shooting up, I can’t help but feel a sense of jealousy.
I once got into a huge fight with this one turkey
who was a little too eager, took things a little too fast.
It didn’t matter that he was blue in the face, I just can’t take
a man who treats a lover with such reckless abandon.
I left him out behind that old 50¢ store
they converted into a library. I figured
once he’d cooled off, maybe he could pick up a book
on the topic of romance.
But don’t kid yourself, I’m no knight
in shining armour. I’m just a sucker
for the “hooker with a heart of gold” storyline.
It makes this addiction seem a little less dirty to me.
My mama always tells me
that I should find better ways to make a living. She reckons
that I can’t afford to keep going at this pace.
Sometimes she’ll visit me right
in the middle
of a particularly tough week. I’m bloated, tense, and unable
to sit. Those days always play out the same way:
she’ll dote over me,
feed me some sort of hot broth,
and try to help me work it out of my system.
she stayed with me for over a week while I swore
to her that this time it was going to make me tap, that I wanted to die.
But it always comes.
Crashing through my system like a linebacker, everything exits
my body as a giant grenade.
Even though she can see the sheer ecstacy in eyes
that this relief provides, mama will always cluck her tongue
at me and swear I need more fibre in my diet.
It’s her polite way of asking me to deal with my
She’s probably right, from a health standpoint,
but I always roll my eyes at her.
What does All-Bran® have to do with writer’s block?
We saw Nickelback in October. You wanna know the fucking punchline?
They totally rocked the house.