spaghetti war crimes

Andy and I have been surfing a lot more lately. At least more this year compared to last. We surfed Doheny last Friday and had a blast. The wave was super weird; I didn’t remember it being like that, but then again, the last time–and first time–I surfed there was ages ago with Dylan and Emma. It was a very slow wave and continued to move towards shore without breaking until it crashed up on the lip of rocks about five feet from the receding edge of the water. Once while we were out, a couple set waves came in, not too big but still, they were set waves, and I paddled frantically to get over them. I did this once or twice and then for some reason, probably because of the tide and how slowly the waves were breaking that day, an idea popped into my mind: “we’ll get there eventually.” I can talk about it more later but all the thinking I’ve been doing on mortality kind of sprung up from my subconscious in this moment I feel like. Yes, I wasn’t talking metaphorically in that exact momen...

i stare into my phone and look over blonde hair green eyes a shirt that’s too big a running stride images from the past thinking i hope there will be more i hope that this is not the end i hope that all this pain will be worth something i can’t text and i can’t call we agreed space would be good if that’s the case then tell me why i’m falling asleep with your sweatshirt between my legs 2/7/22

Sunday, June 22nd 2025 – 3:58pm I’m not a brilliant person. I’m not intelligent, not even that smart. I’m just not proud enough to convince others that I’m some paragon. I’m not brave or honorable or anything of that manner. I’m just weak enough to admit this. I’m a child in the body of a small man, and I say that with no tongue in cheek or resentment to any soul living or passed on because I am not proud. I am me. My ego has died; I have a small bit left over, but day in and day out, I continually work to extinguish whatever sad dribble of it that exists. I am not anything. I am naive, naieve? I’m not even sure how to spell it. I wish for nothing but to enjoy my days in peace.  

sometimes you feel so low and you don’t know why you feel like the world is apathetic to your existence  and if you were gone tomorrow, nothing would change of course, you’d be right but, you’d also be wrong the stock market would still open and close at its usual times the tides would still come in and out the sun would rise and fall, and when the sun departed, the stars and moon would come out to take its place these things would remain the same, but your mother would not your father would not your brothers and sister would be changed your best friend would look upon their reflection in the mirror with blackened hues the light will still shine in your room, but it will be a different light different because it will never touch your skin again the world would be similar but not the same

When we all got news that Hawley was headed back home to Reno, none of us knew what to think. The strongest link in our chainmail, in our holy divine armor, was about to come undone. We had spent countless weeks forging those chains, building what we had come to enjoy for the past couple months, weeks, years? Time has felt odd while in this settlement. One can’t be quite too sure what day it is, what year, what month, what season. It doesn’t help that the weather is perfect with a high of 75 each and every fucking day. Blending the mondays into tuesdays and the tuesdays into wednesdays and so on and so on; so that there is just one blanket of continual day and night that spans for such a time that beards crop out and babies begin primary school. So that relatives pass and that no one can be sure if the ham in the fridge has gone bad. But yea, Hawley’s leaving town. It’s sparked a certain hysteria amongst the group. We’ve all got this trepidation beginning to rear up in our bellies, for...

waterlogged pages bend in awkward ways

          Alexander was a careful young man. He measured up all decisions in his mind before ever taking action. The world of his thoughts was more vivid than the world of forms that danced before him on his cave walls, lit up by the ever-present firelight. Each morning upon rising, Alexander would make himself a fresh pot of coffee. Everyday it was the same amount of the same blend made in the same coffeemaker and poured into the same cup alongside a small amount of the same cream. Alexander measured out 31.8 grams of coffee each day to load into his coffee making machine. That amount was–in his eyes–the perfect ratio for a cup of coffee. Of course, he would only drink a single cup and dump the rest down the sink, but he saw this as a necessary sacrifice in order to obtain the ideal ratio of coffee grounds to hot water in his cup. When ready to measure, he would place the special scale he got as a Christmas gift from his mother on the kitchen counter, do...