black chair Posts

Message In A Bottle

It’s a novel; a register. In excruciating detail, every painful/stupid/blissful/incriminating moment sits.

Have you ever read through your email inbox from years ago? Better still, have you hung on to ancient instant messaging records? I have, and it serves as the immortal documentation for my coming of age. I won and I lost in those fleeting sentiments typed into a screen. My confessional, through all of high school and all of college. Lies, lots of them; more than my brain would let me remember. Love. Hate. Fear. Shame. Oblivion. Joy. I whispered my secrets—my small, daily secrets—through fingers and keys and into the machines. Some of the end recipients would change with time (and the method of change, the rate of it, seems so blindingly obvious in retrospect) but the machines saw it all, every last byte. In the end, they were the most constant confidant, the one common thread through each haltingly typed exchange.

Green Suits and Fish


It was an alarm, a particularly harsh-sounding alarm to match my pounding headache and the sick feeling in my stomach. I wasn’t hungover, but I felt that way, disturbed in the late morning in this barely familiar apartment with the hot sticky sun burning my arm. I don’t remember which of us shut it off—I don’t really remember it ringing at all, though I am certain it did—before we fell back asleep with our pounding heads in the hot sticky sun.