Crazy Bitch on Rollerblades

I crawl under the comforter. Cold dampness. The unmistakable smell of urine. One of the dogs I’m looking after peed in my bed. I am marinating in dog pee

The satanic poodle stares at me. She’s laughing an evil laugh, and it all makes sense: why she didn’t piss during our walk, why she kept grinning at me all evening. 

I sleep on the couch with the Yorkie on my chest. My heart is racing. Or is it the Yorkie’s heart? 

The next morning the Poodle takes a steaming shit on the sidewalk, and I leave it there. I’m no longer a Christian. 

A tanned woman rocking sculpted abs rollerblades past. The Yorkie yaps and the poodle lunges. Blood is drawn. She circles around and screams at me: What’s wrong with you? Control your fucking dogs!

They’re not my dogs. But I tell her they’ve had their shots in an ad hoc attempt to calm her down. I drag the barking beasts away before she has a chance to hassle me for my personal details. I fear being sued. I like my money. 

In the elevator a heavily tattooed man pets the poodle. We stare at each other, unsmiling. He gets off on Floor 32. I get off on Floor 41.  

In the middle of the night both the Yorkie and the poodle start howling at the front door. I peer through the peephole. Nobody’s there.

I bring out their favorite bag of all-natural liver treats. Hey! Look what I have! 

My proffer falls on deaf dog ears. The relentless ferocity of their growling sends chills down my spine. I’m paralyzed by dread, yet calamitous curiosity compels me to take a another look through the portentous lens. 

It’s the ripped rollerblader. I knew she’d come for me. Her eyeballs roll back into her head as she convulses, foaming at the mouth. I yell at her to calm the fuck down, but my voice shakes with penitent terror.

I lock the chain-door and run out onto the balcony, listening to the boding booms of her well-toned body slamming into cracking plaster. I scan the perimeter for an escape route, but to no avail. I’m doomed. The pavement will make me pay.



I entered Williams-Sonoma to buy a Turkish bath towel and exited with a $499 gourmet, 4-slice toaster. I named it Dennis. After my old drug dealer.

My coworker once asked me, “what’s the difference between between a dead baby and a toaster?” She didn’t wait for me to respond before exclaiming excitedly, “you can’t fuck a toaster.” I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe.

The joke no longer amuses me. I wish I could fuck a toaster. I wish I could fuck Dennis.

I’m in love with Dennis, but he doesn’t love me back. He thinks humans are strange (and not in a good way). I wish he’d understand that I’m not like other humans.

I’m deep, I whispered to him in the dark. I’m profound. I read epistemological philosophy on the subway and got an A minus in multivariable calculus.

“Shut up slut,” Dennis drawled. “I’m trying to sleep.”

I grabbed him by his stainless steel sides and screamed in frustration, “you don’t need sleep! You’re a toaster!”

Although he abuses me, I still have diamonds in my eyes for Dennis. He may not be the only love of my life, but he is the love of my life.

“You will decay and die,” he reminds me over breakfast, “such is the fate of hoes.”

I know he’s right. But I hope he’ll remember me—the mornings we spent together over coffee and bagels, the way I carried him home in the rain, not letting his cardboard box get wet; how I licked burnt crumbs out of his interior, making him quiver with ecstasy.

I pray to The Lord I’ll live on in Dennis’ memory.

Fat Girls on Tinder

I don’t hate fat people. 

My dental hygienist is fat, and I would have nobody else clean my teeth. She is gentle, careful, thorough. She doesn’t make senseless small-talk when I have tools in my mouth. She’s a wonderful woman.

But fat girls—in the context of online dating—scare the shit out of me. The fear is crippling. I’m constantly imagining how it might happen again—finding myself trapped on a date with a conniving, corpulent con artist whose Tinder profile is the paradigm of false advertising. 

It happened last Thursday. I was in Boston (for the ASM microbe conference) and staying at The Marriott in Cambridge. After a sushi dinner alone, I was craving connection, intimacy, some reminder I was more than just a cog in the corporate machine. 

I decided to pull up Tinder in the hopes I might get lucky. I came across Summer’s profile: MIT student, strawberry blonde hair, trusting blue eyes. To my surprise we matched and she messaged me first. 

I eagerly invited her to grab a drink at the hotel bar and braced myself for the same, lame, quotidian excuse: something came up; I’m really tired; my uncle just died suddenly. But instead she wasted no time, asking for my address and confirming she was on her way. I couldn’t believe my luck. 

When she sauntered up to me, I was overcome with wave after wave of denial. You’re not my Summer. You’re a whale. You’re a taxicab. You’re Kim and Kanye’s massive Calabasas mansion. 

But her eyes were the same as the pictures, and I knew it must be her: this egg-shaped piece of lard. 

I suppose I entered panic mode, which allowed me to hide my disgust. She reminded me of an overstuffed sausage. I couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying, something about bubble tea and Cambridge and sports. I became genuinely fascinated with her ability to carry on breathing when she so clearly radiated death, disease, decay. 

Would we like another round? Hell fucking no. I signed the bill for our fifteen dollar gin and tonics, my hand trembling. 

The whale looked at me expectantly. Would I like to show her my room? I told her I was very tired, absolutely exhausted, and we parted with a hug that made my skin crawl. 

Sometimes I think about what might have happened if I had taken her upstairs. I’m not certain she would be kind enough to suffocate me with her pale, fleshy boobs before sinking her teeth into my sensitive sinews. I can almost hear the sound of her powerful jaws pulverizing my body into a lifeless pulp. Crunch crunch crunch. 

Objectifying Women

Dagny adjusted her fifteen-inch Macbook pro screen to what she considered to be a more flattering angle before accepting her boyfriend, Hank’s incoming FaceTime call.

“Hey babe,” he scratched his hairy chest, “you look fucking sexy.”

“Aw thanks,” she purred, tilting her head playfully to the side.

“Unbutton your shirt for me babe. Let me see those amazing tits.”

Dagny frowned. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my day?”

“It’s just that you turn me on so much,” Hank explained, “babe I’m sorry. How was your day?”

“Jesus Christ, Hank! Don’t pretend like you care when I know you don’t. You’re like a walking boner. All you do is objectify me.”

“Babe don’t do this,” said Hank, putting on his best puppy-dog face, “you know I care deeply about you.”

“Yeah about my boobs,” Dagny scoffed, “would you even still be talking to me, if I didn’t possess breasts?”

“Aw of course I would,” said Hank, depressed by the dismal thought.

“What if I was in a horrible automobile accident and lost my legs?”

“I would still talk to you if you lost your legs,” he said after pausing a moment too long.

“Ok what if the damage was so bad, they had to amputate everything from my belly-button down?”

Hank cringed, horrified by the image of Dagny as just a torso, a mere stub of a human. No ass? No pussy?

“…As long as I get to look into those beautiful eyes.”

“What if,” said Dagny grinning maniacally, “in the accident my body caught on fire and all that they could salvage was my brain, which they placed in a vat?”

Hank blinked. “Well if you were just a brain in a vat, I couldn’t talk to you now could I? And you couldn’t hear me for that matter.”

“Ok, ok,” Dagny agreed, recognizing the inconsistency in her argument. “What if they were able to hook my brain up to sensors and a computer that could speak, allowing us to communicate? Would you bother?”

“Of course,” said Hank, his brow furrowed with thought, “but I’d have to—you know—find someone else to fuck.”

They both laughed.

“Babe give me a sec,” said Hank, standing up to reveal his pale belly and deplorable basketball shorts, “I need to take a piss.”

Listening to the familiar, comforting sound of Hank urinating, Dagny began to wonder if she would even be herself without her corporeal presence. Her mind was uglier than her exterior—her thoughts fleeting and deranged compared to her tangible tits—her soft and feminine figure.

Indeed if she were reduced to her consciousness she would be nothing but a question mark. She was no Stephen Hawking. She had nothing valuable to offer The World aside from her warm and fertile body.

Panic attacks

It’s 3 a.m. and it’s snowing and my Uber driver cancels on me because he’s an evil communist. 

I seek refuge in the lobby of a high rise apartment complex, and the curmudgeonly doorman tells me I need to wait outside: this building is for guests and residents only. 

I mutter “fucking asshole” and choke on my tears.

Meandering down the slippery sidewalk, I check the Uber app and see I’ve been charged a ten dollar cancellation fee.

I vow to exclusively use Lyft in the future. My blood boils with poison.

“Why the long face?” asks a kind voice in a British accent. 

I look down to see a white guinea pig. I’m surprised he’s not shivering. It’s fucking freezing out. I want to put him in my coat to warm him up, but I don’t want to invade his personal bubble if he happens to be one of those prudish types. 

“I need to get to Columbus Circle from here, but I don’t know how. Can you help me?”

“I would but—“ 

His fur appears to be melting into the snow. All that’s left are his beady, black eyes. I think he must be dead because they’re no longer blinking.

It occurs to me that I’m next. My heartbeat is faltering. I feel like a passenger on a crashing plane. Only I’m losing control of my own body. 

I run into the street and flag down a yellow taxicab. 

“Call an ambulance!” I scream hysterically, “I’m dying.”

When I say the words out loud I feel very sad. I can’t die now—not when life is so full of pleasure and possibility. And my poor parents: they love me too much. 

“What are you waiting for?” I wail at the stunned driver, “I’m having a fucking heart attack!!!”

Trying new things

We’re watching a clip of Yuja Wang playing Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 3 on the apple TV in the living room of his professionally decorated Upper East Side high rise apartment.

You’re right, I say, she is really, really sexy.

Right? I told you. I mean her face is eh, but that body. That ass.

I disagree emphatically but don’t say anything. Yuja Wang has a lovely face-the cute, childish kind that is perfectly complimented by a feathered pixie cut. 

That ass though. Ass ass ass.

He kisses me. He tastes like cigarettes, but I don’t mind. 

When he reaches to undo my corduroy shorts, I place a heavy hand on his chest and sigh.

Hello. It’s me. The bearer of terrible news. I’m on my period day 1, the heaviest. It’s coming out in ungodly clots.

Oh don’t worry about it, he says with understanding—almost too much understanding. Where is his disappointment?

Have you tried ear sex? He asks excitedly. 

No–no I haven’t. I have never tried that ever. Has he? 

Yes: he has. It’s great fun. Do I want my ear fucked?

The idea makes me uncomfortable, I tell him. I just don’t think it’s natural, to have my ear fucked. That particular orifice is designed for listening, not for accommodating a large, uncircumcised penis. I’m not sure it would even fit. 

The ear can stretch, he assures me. We’ll use plenty of desensitizing lube. We’ll start slow

He admits he’s been checking out my cartilage. My cartilage is beautiful. The perfect kind for fucking. I should try it, just once. He strokes my lobule. I don’t want it to feel good, but it does

Tie your hair up. I tie my hair up. 

He carries me to the bedroom and lays me gently on my side. He gives me a tempurpedic pillow to rest my head on. The lube feels cold on my bare ear. He starts slowly, just pushing his member around the anterior notch. He moans in pleasure. 

Your ear is perfect. He strokes my inner helix. Your Tragus turns me on so much. 

It’s a strange sensation, but not altogether unpleasant. 

He begins thrusting into my canal. The feeling is intense. When he orgasms, I can actually hear the semen pumping out. Glug glug glug

That was amazing, he breathes, kissing my jaw and neck. 

Cum is oozing out of my ear. 

Waiting for the metro, I desperately jump up and down on my right leg with my head tilted to the side. I hate the sensation of fluid trapped inside my head.

An overweight, middle-aged black woman stares at me curiously. She probably thinks I just went swimming at the Manhattan Sports Club. Lady if only you knew: I got my ear pounded by a massive nine-inch cock. 

Sleep on yo side tonight, honey. Her voice is warm. It’ll all drip out by the time you wake up.

Leap Day

I check The Google just to make sure. It’s all true: on February 29th the Lord Our God uses his long fingers to create a ripple in time-space. The consequence is this: nothing on Leap Day counts.

My stomach growls. I open the fridge. All I have is a carton of eight eggs and half a cheese pizza. I crack two of them into a tumbler and slurp them down. The texture if fantastic, but the taste is borderline nauseating. I’m still hungry.

I buy a Caprese sandwich at Whole Foods and heat it in the toaster oven. A beautiful woman is waiting to heat her lasagna. I instinctively remove my semi-warm sandwich because nobody likes to wait. Are you sure it’s hot enough? She asks. I stare incredulously into her ocean-blue eyes. She’s genuinely concerned about my lukewarm lunch.

I cup my hand under her exquisite chin and kiss her soft, succulent mouth. So you wanna get out of here?

We check into the Trump International Hotel using my father’s credit card and have unprotected sex in sixty-nine different positions. She leaves to pick her daughter up from daycare (after flushing the semen out of her eyeballs).

Somehow I’m certain I got her pregnant.

I take an UberBLACK to Savoir Beds in SoHo to meditate on a variety of supportive surfaces. I’ve made my way through six sublime beds when the nervous, nerdy salesman asks if he can help me: what am I looking for? Leave me the fuck alone, I say softly. I see myself out before security arrives.

I stroll into a slick-looking Japanese restaurant. Table for one. I order the Calf’s Brain, which comes in what looks like a tube for toothpaste. I squeeze the creamy substance onto soft pancakes topped with caviar. I wash down the orgasmic meal with a fifteen-dollar Japanese IPA.

As soon as I exit the restaurant I vomit violently into a bush. Some of it comes out of my nose, and it stings. I straighten up, but am hit by another wave of nausea. I hurl cathartically for several more minutes.

I’m exhausted when I get home. I feel lonely so I re-read my philosophy professor’s comments on my term paper. I trashed all my coursework from college, but I saved every document containing her handwriting for desperate moments like these. I call her office and leave a voicemail. I love you. Will you marry me?

I don’t even need Benadryl to fall asleep. It comes to me instantly.

I’m awakened by the gentle hum of traffic. I check my phone: 10:22 a.m.

My stomach growls. I open the fridge. All I have is a carton of eight eggs and half a cheese pizza. I boil two of them to make an egg salad sandwich for later.