This gold-plated, “VIP”-stamped coin that came in a condom wrapper and was meant to be redeemed in a section of this posh condom-and-sex-toy launch, and which I could have used to interview Charlie Sheen, but chose not to.
These things trickle in over time.
It was a though I had died and gone to heaven! A waitress said to me, “Honeybunch, you sit right down, and I’ll bring you your coffee right away.” I hadn’t said anything to her.
So I did sit down, and everywhere I looked I saw customers of every description being received with love.
To the waitress everybody was “honeybunch” and “darling” and “dear”. It was like an emergency ward after a great catastrophe. It did not matter what race or class the victims belonged to. They were all given the same miracle drug, which was coffee. The catastrophe in this case, of course, was that the sun had come up again.
I had the feeling that if Frankenstein’s monster crashed into the coffee shop through a brick wall, all anybody would say to him was, “You sit down here, Lambchop, and I’ll bring your coffee right away.”
“Frère Fuckable meets Floral Romper on a Friday”
(subtitle: Upon Disturbing Your Tinder Date At The Last Place We Were Happy)
How many miles to Breadside?
Soaring through the cosmos listening to the Jurassic Park score (maybe a few others) feeling no sadness, only marvel