A machine for your affection

The fabulous guys at East Village Boys are serializing my zine, Scorcher. I am really excited and flattered that anyone reads this, so it's totally thrilling that people are actually hosting this. The first story, "Brother", is up online now. It's about sleeping with a nightclub personality. See if you can guess who it is. On the website there are really great illustrations of underpants and bruises and it feels like a gift I haven't even earned. Please: CHECK IT OUT.

I'm revising my list of SHIT I DON'T NEED. Possibly adding a sub-heading so that it will read SHIT I DON'T NEED (FROM YOU). Topping the list: to be the custodian of your fucking "feelings". Clean up after your own self. I am a karmic lover. My heart is a lot like a pendulum ( and a pendulum, as everyone knows, is a lot like a wrecking ball). I only ever treat people the way I expect and hope to be treated. I treat people better than I hope to be treated, most of the time. As such I can't tell if it's callous or not to just work with the assumption that haters are jealous. Is that dismissive? How would I feel if someone said that to me? I guess I would feel alright if it were the truth. Some of the time it is the truth.

Mercury is officially retrograde today. I woke up in the middle of the night, furious. I thought I broke my back. I had not. At 5am I rearranged my bed, switching where I lay my head and where I put my feet. That seemed to work, I fell back asleep. Quin came in in the morning and approved of the new layout as well.

I thought I saw you this morning, on the street. That I had recognized you from behind, but it wasn't you.

One thing that gives me simple, guiltless, and easily-replicated pleasure: Youtube videos of models falling down:

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