Dear ______,

I know that little about me makes sense to you. I know, too, that in this script I am supposed to shrug despondently and tell you that little about me makes sense to me, and I understand your confusion. I am supposed to say that. That is my next line. I am supposed to deliver it with a weary care, a note of  sadness.

It isn’t true and I’m so very tired of lying.

There is a pathology to my emotions, a precise science to my highs and lows, my wild swings from a place you know how to find and that wild country beyond. I have studied me my entire life, I have gone beyond my doctorate, I am an expert in my field. I know how to repair myself, and I can map out the more important place, the area that shows you how not to break me.

When we met I thought about writing you a technical guide to the thing that I am, but I know that things like that are in the category of reasons that I never win. It would make perfect sense and someone else could know me, too, I could have a colleague in this, my life’s unwilling work, but to give you the book implies a belief that you want to know. I am far too frightened a field to ever suggest such a thing, even when I believe it may be true.

This is one of the most important things that you do not know, this fear that leaves me wild-eyed and breathless behind whatever I am pretending to be. I am afraid of all the things you think I might be afraid of, but I am afraid of so much more.

 I am afraid that you will not like what you learn, that will find behind the skin of me a blood unbearable, a thing that is so many things you never needed to know. This I suspect you know, and know you suspect.

 I am afraid that this machine that I am was manufactured to live landlocked with love. I am afraid. I am afraid.

But I am also afraid that I will not want you studying me. I will not want you wanting to know all that I know, all the ways the tiny wires connecting the meat of me make me the things that I am and will be. This is where my science becomes as cruel as science tends to be, and makes the scientist mute. I can’t tell you that I fear I am only saying your name in reverent tones and while sweating because I need to say something, I need to know someone else’s name and believe that they know mine, and you are here. You are here.

I am afraid that I am always right when I am afraid, and I am afraid that this tested result is consistent.

 I am afraid that you will never ask what I haven’t told you yet, and it isn’t simply fear that makes me know that if you don’t I never will. I could tell you all the ways I work, all the things that leave me on the ground two steps too close to the edge and unable to work my way back. I am afraid that you are just another you, and not something different entirely. I am afraid that I know all of you now, and there is nothing new to learn, I am afraid that you are only what you are and not any of the things I think you could be.

I am afraid. I am afraid. I am afraid. I am accustomed.


I start counting, because counting is enough sometimes to make the time pass and to get past this. I count my feet because there are two and two is an even number, but once I count my feet I have to count my body all the way through. I count my fingers and there are ten and that is even and I count my toes and there are ten and that is even, and things are looking good so far. I have two legs and two arms and two hands and two feet and two breasts and two eyes and two lips, scratch that and make it four which is still fine and even and right, but now things are complicated. I have one nose and one mouth and one cunt, I have one face and one torso and one ass and one clit and you used to put your one tongue on it and then press your one tongue against my one tongue, filling my one mouth with the taste of my one cunt and then that was okay, no matter how many ones we put in we were always two and that was even and so it was fine. Now I’ve lost count and my two eyes are crying what I’m sure is an odd number of tears and I’m pressing them closed using four of my ten fingers and even that reminds me of your fingers pressing into me and I am lost here and stuck here because an elevator doesn’t just let you off whenever you want it to, you have to wait for the two doors to open and sometimes you have to wait for an odd number of people to get off in front of you so you can break free and run, run, run.

The two doors open and I am still one on this elevator when they do, and this is a time when one is better than two, as impossible as that sounds, and I don’t run, run, run even though I want to, even though I want to just bolt through this lobby and past the guards and down the escalator through groups of misters and misses and suits and ties and I want to burst through their days and break through the doors, I want to scream as I do it and I want them to hear me but I want you to hear me even more, and I don’t do it. I don’t run. I don’t make a noise. I walk calmly to the doors, I ignore the revolving ones because what a nightmare of possible numbers that is, and I get outside through the much more maneuverable traditional doors and I breathe deep in the rain soaked air and I light a cigarette and I take one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten steps to a spot that is not too close to anyone else and I stand.

I pick up the phone that lives in my head and I call you. I have so many things I want to say to you, but today I start with:

“Do you remember getting kicked out of that cheesy bar in Pioneer Square? The one with the faux western theme and all the frat types mixing with the forty somethings, all hoping for a chance to fuck the girls dancing on the bar or at least one of the drunk misguided stereotypes writhing in a solid mass to top forty pop hits? That was one of the best nights of my life with you.”

I take your silence as encouragement. I continue my story, our story, because maybe you don’t remember, and sure, that’s almost too awful to consider, but it’s something to say other than “I miss you so much I feel like I’m fucking falling all the time now” or “I love you and you loved me and how can one little letter make such a huge difference in my life”.

“We went there hoping for trouble but not looking for it. We went there like we went so many places, wanting not necessarily violence but it’s potential. We got our hands stamped and forced our way up to the bar, not caring how many future bankers or car salesmen we trampled and shoved past. Once there, we eyed the dancer on the bar and ordered two shots and two beers. It was like we were in a movie, we just ordered beers and waited to see what they brought. We already knew it didn’t matter. The dancer came over to you and started her obligatory mating ritual, practically rubbing her scantily clad vagina across the top of your head as she gyrated. This was our chance and I took it. I got angry. I got wild eyed. I pounded the bar and I started to shout. I demanded equality. “Get over here and rub your vagina on my head this instant, young lady! What’s wrong, don’t you believe in equality? Is this bar anti-gay, or is it just you? Do you people discriminate against women? What the fuck is wrong with you, you bigot!” I built to a frenzy and began rhythmically pounding, chanting. You joined in. “Equality. Equality. Equality. Equality.” Predictably, a bouncer laid his hand on your arm, because obviously you had to be the source of the trouble. Just another drunken pile of raging hormones gone mad in the face of tits and ass all packaged and displayed neatly. He grabbed your arm and I caught your eye. As soon as I made contact, you nodded and we were off. I grabbed my beer, never knowing what they’d served me, and threw the drink in his beefy face. In the moment of shock that followed, I made a run for it, screaming “REMEMBER THE ALAMO” as I ran. I never looked back for you, I knew this time you were our lamb to the slaughter of a bad idea and a good time. I ran in circles around the dance floor crowded with people we knew we didn’t want to be or know. I ran and I ran, only deviating from my circle when I absolutely had to. I made the situation into a scene out of Looney Tunes, the bouncers playing Wile E. Coyote to my Road Runner. I wasn’t trying to escape, I didn’t want to get lost in the crowd. I just wanted to keep going as long as possible. They were closing in on me and I knew it, but I just kept running, limbs flailing wildly, jumping over people where necessary. When they finally grabbed me near the women’s bathroom, I knew I had a choice. Would I go quietly into this good night? Fuck I would. I’m only five foot two, but I thrashed and kicked wildly as they carried me out. I’d never been physically removed from anywhere before, and it fulfilled all of my expectations. They carried me out and tossed me on the sidewalk. I was sober but I still felt no pain as I picked myself up and went looking for you. They were as dumb as they looked, shouting “Where’s the other one?” as they rushed back inside to find you, forgetting that they’d already deposited you safely outside the other entrance, quietly and with no fuss. No nonsense for you, not that night.”

You still haven’t said anything, and I’m hoping that’s because you’re remembering us that night, our manic glee as we created a cartoon scene all over their meat market, the way we were always a team this way. I’m hoping that you are remembering us and that this might be the thing that reminds you to be in love with me. I press on just in case things are this way.

“Every time one of us ended up bruised we fucked like we believed in forever, usually wherever we stood. That night we ran laughing, holding hands a half block before we saw the fence surrounding a parking garage and knew without exchanging a word that we had to climb it and it had to be a contest. Most of our contests were like this. There was no prize and there were no rules, there was just this thing we had to do and losing was almost as good as winning if you did it with enough enthusiasm and style. This was that. We said nothing, we just ran and started the climb. You were fast, you were always so fast. Contests involving speed usually belonged to you, unless you tripped, unless you fell, unless you decided to let me win. Tonight was usually, and you hit the top a full minute or more before I did. You got to the top, and you stood laughing and stripping your shirt off as I continued to climb. Losing is never an excuse for giving up, we told each other every time. You, half naked and full of joy, standing there watching me made me climb faster than I thought I could. If you’d been at the top all along like this, I’d have won, hands down. I could beat anyone to get to you this way. You grabbed for my hand to pull me up but I shook you off, wanting to do this myself. I crawled over the final rung with the lack of grace that was my trademark, and as soon as I was up you were on me. I stood up and you shoved me back down on the cold concrete, a rough shove that had my scabbed elbows taking more damage. You straddled me in my shock, and it took a moment for me to respond. It took all my strength but I shoved you off of me and stood again, watching you on the ground. I gave you my hand and pulled you back to your feet. As soon as you stood in front of me I knocked you back down. There was a crack and I knew it was your head against the cement and we were even then, while we were being odd, and we were just starting. It wasn’t always like this with us, but oh, when it was. I was on top now, and you slapped wildly at my hands when I reached for your zipper. You fought like you meant it, and I loved you then like a fucking housefire, I wanted to consume you that way, to leave you burnt and ruined, to turn you into something no one else could ever experience. A hard left to my jaw broke me out of needing to be the last person you ever knew, and I was on the ground again. Do you remember us that way? Do you remember that I couldn’t stop smiling at you that way, with my teeth loose which was okay because if they were loose they were still there, they were still in my mouth like I wanted you to be in my mouth, you and my loose teeth jammed in together behind my red red smile. I was on the ground with that smile, and you were on me again, kissing that red smile, and it hurt, but I wanted you more than I wanted the pain of it to stop, and this time you didn’t fight me when I reached for you.”

I’m only not knowing that all my strings have been cut when we’re locked in this filthfuck, this grappling in the dirt and the muck that we carry wherever we go. I know I’m a puppet, I know I’m playing games, I know I’m being played, but with your limbs leaving marks I’m forever forgetful for the forever that lasts right up until I get up, take a shower, and go back to the way my life is supposed to be lived. 


I keep meaning to lose your number. I keep meaning to lose the need to have you around to make me numb-er. I keep meaning to do a million things I never do, and that this has been an intention for as many as nine years or as few as seven (because time is never linear for me, I have no lucid chronology and this is only one of the ways you know me, the ways you knew me) isn’t terribly surprising. I am almost always fat full of intent and I am also almost always failing. 


Every time I crawl out of your car, covered in you, thighs slick with sweat and everything I used to forget that I feel, I am slammed back down to an earth where I am moving precisely how I am told, how I am required. I am set back down, cold, wet, tired and just a little bit less human than I was when I began. 


It is these times that I wonder if I am using you for more than the things I know I am using you for. If I have become a mystery even to myself, if I have become such a gifted liar that I am not even capable of telling myself the truth, about this or any of the other stupid and ugly crimes I am always committing, always committed to. It is these times that I think I might be crawling all over you in a desperate attempt to crawl out of me.

It’s only three AM, but I’m considering staying awake forever. Not just for tonight. Sleep and I have this love/hate thing, it’s the kind of intense you know could be for real. We could go the distance, fists flying, fists fucking, fisted flailing. We could be real. I don’t understand it when people tell me you can’t love what you hate – how can you love what you don’t hate? What do you hold on to in the middle of the night when your lover is still gone and the light left hours ago, and they don’t answer the phone, and you call and call and you call and call and you call and call, and at some point you stop leaving messages but then you start again, and you try not to sob too much, but then you end up screaming and you can’t for the life of you figure out whether it is better to threaten or to beg, if you can’t hold on to hate? What do you hold on to on those long and ugly nights if you are not holding on to hate to hold on to sanity to hold on to this stupid relationship with this person whose face you just want to break into pieces, you just want to shatter, you just want to slam into the concrete like it was a pillow while you fuck them from behind? If it isn’t hate that makes love possible and tangible, I don’t know what it is. 



Anyway. It is late here, or maybe it is early. This is one of the many things I have never been able to fully understand, like if you should tell people your horror stories so that they will feel sorry for you, like the one about the time when you were so, so young and so, so trusting and then your dad threw a huge marbled glass ashtray through the window, the noise it made was obscene but kind of perfect, and you knew you would never be quite the same again, you knew you would always know that there was something violent right around the corner, or if you should keep them to yourself so that people will see you weeping quietly once in awhile and they will think that you are perfect and mysterious and so, so strong, and they will want to be like you but they will also not want to be like you because really they will also be thinking that you are so, so cold. Like that. I do understand whether it is early or late like I do not understand what to do with my horror. 


It is whatever it is, and I am not sleeping. I started out not sleeping because there was work to be done, but then I didn’t really do all of the work and I am still awake,  not doing the work, and the work is still not done and this is a thing. It might be a good thing and it might be a bad thing and it might just be a thing that is, but it is, undeniably, a thing. Instead I am listening to noises and drinking a beer that someone put coffee in (bless that person, I could not decide if I should have coffee or a drink, but then I found this in the back of the refrigerator, it may not have been mine originally, but it is now and I am grateful for this as I am grateful for anything that takes a decision and makes it something I do not have to make) and I am that kind of tired that is not tired, that kind of tired that wants to pretend that it is really not at all anything, not any kind of thing, it wants to pretend it is the opposite of tired, but it can only do that if the eyelids will sign a pact and keep to the treaty, and they are considering breaking it, the tired can tell. 


So I am almost sort of tired, and sleep is a long way off, because there are so many things that need to be done, besides the work. There are so many things to read and write and say and do, so many people to greet and hug and fuck and punch in the face, the gut, the groin, so many apologies to make, so many thanks to hand out. There is always so fucking much to get done, and it is this that makes me lie in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the way light works, because if I don’t think about that, I have to think about all the things I should be doing when I am lying in bed staring at the ceiling thinking about the way that light works.


When I am doing this I am feeling like I am 14 years old, and then I realize that I don’t really recall being fourteen years old, and I don’t really recall being fifteen or sixteen years old either. It isn’t that I don’t remember anything that happened when I was that age, it is just that I don’t remember what age I was when the thing I am remembering happened, and even when I think I do, I am later proved wrong. Time went non linear on me so long ago, and now there is no lucid chronology I can use as a point of reference. Even saying that time went non linear so long ago  feels like it could be an accidental lie, like maybe it was last week or a month ago or two years ago that it did this thing to me, and then I have to spend at least an hour (I think, who knows?) knowing that so long ago  means something different to everyone, or maybe it means something different only to me and I do not know that it means the same thing, a set thing, a set amount of time, to everyone else because this lack of chronology extends itself and becomes a lack of language to describe chronology, becomes a lack of everything everyone else has where time is concerned.


So it is what time it is, here, and it is what time it is, there, and the two are different things but also I am fairly certain that they might really be the same thing, and time differences are just a trick played, a lie told, a practical joke. I was in bed staring at the ceiling thinking about the way that light works, when I remembered the way that light worked when you were lying in the bed with me. It was exactly the same as it is now that you are not in this bed with me, and just there, in that moment, in that one uglydumb moment, I knew that I never loved you and I never hated you, and I think my heart might actually be broken forever just from knowing that.


I thought you should know, too.


That might seem cruel, but it is the only way to give myself a tiny piece of hope, you see. When I realized that I never loved or hated you because light worked precisely the same way without your presence as it did with it, I also realized that you might be lying somewhere, or maybe sitting, or maybe standing, and realizing that light was not even one tiny bit different without me, and then you would know that you never hated me and so you never loved me, and that is a thing I cannot bear. I simply cannot bear the idea of you knowing that, and so I thought if I told you this, that I never loved you and i never hated you, never, no matter what I said or did, the times we fought and fucked like forever, like forever and ever amen, the times I fucked you in the street, the times I held your hand and bought you ice cream, none of those times, none of them meant nothing but none of them meant three little words, I thought if I told you this then you would hate me and you would hurt and you would reach out and lash out and you would try to hurt me, and maybe then I could hate you. If I could hate you now, maybe I could love you now, and maybe loving and hating you now would somehow get lost and tangled in my lack of understanding of time, and I would believe that it was then that I loved you, then that I hated you like a thing I wanted to kill, and everything would be okay again, and I could go to sleep. It is the only thing I can think to do for us. 


Do you understand? I want you to.


 I hope this finds you well.Good night. (Is it night?) 

I just want to be more than a haunting to you. Remember that? Remember those days? The days and nights where we were something solid to one another?


Maybe you don’t. That would be worse than this, I think.


I’m supposed to tell you that I want you to be happy, that I want you to have forgotten me, or to only think of us once in awhile , to pause with a sweetly wistful look on your face before continuing on with your grocery shopping, your phone call, your fucking in the back of a tiny car, your drinks with friends. I think that that’s what I’m supposed to tell you. It might even be what I’m supposed to want.


I can tell you that, and sometimes I do. I tell you a lot of things, so it’s really not that surprising that this one makes it into the rotation. I tell you that I hope you are happy, really happy, I tell you that I am lying in a pool of my own sticky blood and I hope you know that this is all your fault, all your fault, all your goddamned fault, I tell you that all I want is just one more filthy fuck in a place where fucking isn’t supposed to be going on, I tell you that I think of you often, I tell you that I never think of you. I tell you a lot of things with my hand on the little button on the phone that makes certain that no matter how many times I dial your number, you never answer.


I want you to still love me, I want you to still be here with me, burning down churches and staging hand holding sneak attacks. I want you to be hurting, I want you to fucking suffer with wanting me, I want you to feel my name in each of your veins, and I want you to call. I want you to call. I want you to call me and call me and call me, I want you to panic about how many times you have called me and swear to yourself and whoever you call your best friend now that you will never call me again because only creepy stalkers call people that many times in the middle of the night and fail to ever say anything.


I want you to never call me again. I want to hear your voice in a bar and spin around with such speed that I nearly have whiplash, only to see someone that doesn’t even vaguely resemble you and feel something that isn’t disappointment but is the closest thing to it I’ve felt in months. I want to see you on a street corner and race after you, heart pounding, trying to look casual while wiping the sweat from my brow before realizing that it wasn’t you, again. It wasn’t you this time anymore than it was the last five times I bolted down the street trying to look like I wasn’t chasing anyone.


I want to find a way to move backwards in time, and spend at least a day or two locked in the night that we sped down the hill in your car, taking turns screaming with our bodies bent through your sunroof, screaming blindly and wildly, screaming nothing, screaming song lyrics, screaming screaming screaming, all because it was possible and if something is possible then to not do it is a crime we are not capable of committing.


I want to commit. I want us to commit to one another, to commit to not doing this anymore, whatever this is that we are doing, that we are almost always doing. This is what we are doing every time we are not being something, but somehow we never get around to being nothing, and I want us to commit to not spending one.




being something so vague. I need us to decide and then stick to that decision, are we something or are we nothing, are we here or did we vanish somewhere along the way? Anything is better than living in a shadow play where all the puppets are us and all the puppeteers are us also but we can somehow never figure out how to untangle the strings and figure out the trick.


Do you understand the things that I am saying to you? Do you? Can you even fucking hear me? I’m yelling in your ear, I feel like I have made a very successful megaphone and am holding it less than one inch away from your face, but something tells me that you are still not listening, that you are still not listening, at least, for comprehension, and that you are just waiting for the right moment to slip back into being the thing that isn’t something but isn’t nothing and I tell you now, I will not stand for it, I will not allow it. I will simply not let this continue to be the case between you and I, and I do not need your permission to make this decision. My decisions from this day forward are going to be, above all, like a decapitation, one swift strong blow or the head will never roll.


I want you to say that you understand. I want you to say something that leads me to believe that you understand at least the underlying ideas of what I am saying to you now. Of what I have been saying to you since the beginning of time, it feels like. You are older than me but somehow I feel as though I have been saying the exact same tired words to you your entire life, and I do not think you have heard a one, not even the times you’ve responded and we’ve had entire conversations like this. I do not think you heard even those words.


Can you begin to understand how I feel at times like these? Half drunk on whiskey and painkillers, well on my way to being an irrational being, if such a thing can exist where rational beings don’t (I do not know – is it possible to be the opposite of a thing that is not?) I feel as though I am the only one feeling anything here.


This is what kills me, the idea that this is not killing you. Why isn’t this killing you? Why aren’t you dead yet from the pain of knowing that I do not want you anymore, that I do not want you to stand near me, that I do not want to harass schoolchildren by your side, that I do not want to drink too much and run into the street half naked and screaming with you just to see what might happen? There are so many things that I do not want to do with you anymore.


Don’t you hurt over any of them? Don’t any of them make you want to lie in a pool of your own sticky blood and call me and tell me that you hope I know this is all my fault?


Oh god. Is this all my fault?


When I run into a coworker in the bathroom, and we’re both washing our hands, I won’t say anything if they don’t. But when they do, and we’re talking about whatever the weather is doing or how glad/angry/sad we are that it is whatever day of the week that it is, what I really want to tell them is something about themselves, something probably no one has ever told them because no one feels free to be honest but for christ’s sake, if you can’t be honest in the bathroom with your hands dripping wet while you’re awkwardly reaching for a paper towel, when can you? 

I would have told her that she desperately needs to have some fun before it’s too late, and that we never know when it will be too late and it’s possible that it will be too late by the time our hands dried, and that if she wanted I would take her with me. Somewhere. 


 Everyone should always be nice to everyone

like me 

that’s what I do 

I’m nice to everyone always forever 

the world is nice 

that isn’t a nice thing to say, but I’m too nice to get upset about it  




        ALL LIES 

That isn’t nice. 

 Don’t worry, I’ll still be nice to you. 

Maybe my being nice will inspire you to be nice 

 and then the world will be nice 

 wouldn’t that be nice? 

             fuck you. 

I don’t know if that would be nice or not. 

 would it? 

 I’d do it if it was nice. I like things that are nice, and I like doing things that strike m as nice 


            you massive flirt. 

 I’m not certain if that’s nice, but I like things that are nice, so I choose to think that that was a nice thing to say. 

            shut up. 

Thank you for being nice and saying nice things, but I don’t think it’s very nice when you say shut up. 

Just to be nice, I’ll pretend you didn’t say it.

 I think if more people were nice to you all the time, you would be nice, too. 

It feels nice to be nice. 


 I don’t think that that would be nice. If I died, there would be less niceness in the world. 

 It isn’t nice to reduce the amount of niceness. 

 I’m sorry, because to be nice, I’d like to b able to honor your request. 

 You can see what a position you’ve put me in. 

 And it isn’t nice to put me in such a position. 

 All I want is to be nice to everyone ever all the time. 

              but I want you to die. if you don’t die, that’s not nice to me 

 That is the conundrum.  Conundrum is a nice word, by the way. 

 But I have to consider the greater nice, you know. 

 I really am very sorry.  

 Is there anything else I can do to be nice to you? 


              you could die. 

 The greater nice won’t allow that.  

It isn’t nice of you to put me in this position, but I really believe that you are a nice person and that it causes you pain to do something that isn’t nice, so to be nice, I absolve you. 

              you’re not nice. 

Oh, how awful to say. But to be nice, I forgive you. 

             That’s not nice 

             I don’t want to be forgiven 

             YOU HAVE OFFENDED ME 

 I am so, so sorry. 

 It’s not nice to offend people. 

             ugh, sorry 

My heart hurts at the idea. 

             that’s even less nice 

             I hate sorry 

 I ache, I burn. I do not feel nice. 

 But in the interest of niceness, I will endure. 

             YOU SAID YOU WERE NICE 

 I will be nice. 

            I feel let down 

 I am nice. 

            no you’re not 


How can you say that? How could I possibly lie? 

 Lying isn’t nice. 

             absolve this 

             (grabs crotch) 

Did that feel nice? 

 Things that feel nice are nice. 


             NICE IS A BISCUIT 

Would you like a biscuit? 

             shut up. 

 I just want to be nice with you. 

 Let’s be nice together.  

             Go stick your head in a toilet. 

 Let’s go on a nice rampage, and be nice in convenience stores, banks, bars. 

 let’s be nice to everyone we see, and make everyone feel nice all the time 

              You’re like a robot with crossed wires 

we could be nice, and then they would see how nice we were, and they would be nice to  

and it would be like no one had ever not been nice 

 in the entire history of ever 

 wouldn’t that be nice? 



                well you’re not nice 

                it’s been proven 

Proof isn’t nice. 

                 and yet you proved it yourself 


From this moment forward, I will never acknowledge anything that isn’t nice.
 The only things in this nice world are nice 

 and anything that isn’t nice cannnot be contemplate

                 so you can’t acknowledge yourself? 

 I am nice. 

 You are nice. 

 Flowers are nice. 

 Sex is nice.
Rainbows are nice.
Puppies are nice.
Stained glass lying broken on the ground in the sun is nice.
Kissing is nice.
Almost kissing but not kissing but knowing that you could have and probably will someday is nice.
Video games are nice.
Movies with zombies in them are nice.
Shoes are nice.
Clean sheets are nice.
rain is nice.
                 I AM OFFENDED 
Jokes that shouldn’t be funny and even maybe a little cruel but actually they are funny anyway are nice.


bookstores are nice.
scraps of paper found thirty years later are nice.

cartwheels are nice. 

I am nice. 
The world is nice.
How nice. 


                  you offend me. 

That’s nice. 

 It exists, so it must be nice. 

                  guess what else exists 



                     which is pretty much the opposite of nice 

 That is a nice sounding word. 

                    I find you unpleasant 

                    and tedious
                    and you offend me.
That had a nice rhythm to it.
It was nice to hear. 

                I hope you trip down some stairs and break your spine so that your arse bends back over to your face 
                and you spent six hours farting into your own mouth until you finally die 

That’s a nice mental image. It was nice to picture and it made me laugh. 
Thank you for being nice enough to make me laugh. It was nice. 
                 LAUGH INTO YOUR ARSE.
That might be nice.
I’ll try it sometime and let you know if it was nice.

Wouldn’t it be nice to know? 

                     Seeing a therapist might be nice. Try that. 



Oh no, that’s alright. They’re nice, but that means that I don’t have to take the time to help them be nice. 

I might though. If I ever found one who needed more nice in their life.

It would be nice to be nice to them.

and help them learn how to be nice. 


                         Some things are not nice. 



                         BY DEFINITION 
Definitions are nice. 
I like them, they make it easier to know how nice things are.
And help you describe all the nice things that there are. 
                         What about not nice? Is that nice?

It is nice. It has a nice sound to it, and feels good when you roll it in your mouth with your tongue. 
Tongues are nice. 
                             OBVIOUSLY, your reasoning is flawed.
Oh, flaws are so very nice. 
They make things that are nice also interesting and things that are interesting are terribly nice.
                            perhaps you’ll slip in a public bathroom, hit your head on a toilet cistern and 
                             then drown in a bowl of someone else’s piss 

It would be a nice story for people to tell.
It would make them laugh in a nervous and furtive way
while they looked around to see if anyone else was laughing
and when they found someone who was and met their eyes
they wouldn’t feel alone anymore
and it would be nice.

                          Today has been the shortest day ever.
                           It sucks.

Short days are nice.
They make you appreciate how nice the long days are.
They’re both so nice the way they work together.
Isn’t it nice when things are nice in different ways?

                         go fuck yourself up the cunt with an electric whisk wrapped in barbed wire 


 That might be nice. 
Someone could be looking for just that sort of picture.
I could take a picture of doing that sort of nice thing and post it on the nice internet 

 and then the person who wanted it would find it and feel nice 

 and I would feel nice for having been nice to someone 

 it would be so nice. 
                         LEAVE AND DON’T EVER COME BACK.

Okay, it’s been awfully nice talking with you.  

You’re nice, and the world is a nicer place because of how nice you are in it. 

 Have a nice evening.