Get Me Going

You'd think it would be obvious if you were a premature ejaculator, but what if you just never discovered what really turns you on? At twenty nine I thought I was a normal heterosexual male of average prowess experiencing a period of sexual stagnation. Then, walking home one night from from another failed relationship, another girl lecturing me about my lack of passion, a frothy-jowled doberman came out of nowhere, sinking its ravenous jaws into the ass of my jeans and I came like never before. It's an embarrassing condition, but now my eyes are alive as I stalk through the black neighborhoods, pitching a tall erection next to the oily discs of bologna package-taped up and down my thighs.

I Don't Believe in You

I look down at the sheet of music, hundreds of little black notes stemmed together like tiny books of matches, and now more than ever I wish I could strike one and watch the whole thing go up. It's been three solid years of crisis, of defeat, of struggling to even remember the things I love, and now I'm left with two unfilled prescriptions and a simple choice. Go or stay, finish this degree or don't, and so I crumple up the page with all its sacred little dots and drop it into a mug of water on my desk, watching it bloom and sink to the bottom. I can do this, I know, because I don't believe in them, either.