finklestein

Your personality, a teeter totter, is mounted by Sleep and Stress (both boys of a healthy, if not husky, build). Now a balanced load, while safe, bores the children. They sit in discomfort, stout legs dangling and kicking anxiously, bored.

Now, as children, they are gluttons. Sleep fancies beer and reading and orgasms. Stress prefers cigarettes and vomitting and fucking. Should one gorge, he'll surely...
Read More

She patiently waited, as he had countless times before, for flaccidity. In a rehearsed procedure consisting of a flick, a tuck, and a mechanical gyration, she entered him. He recycled her fluids. And there slumped Morgan, the last man and woman on earth, knowing perfectly well it was impossible for him to impregnate herself.

The primordial chef slopped stews into different bowls of species, humans being a misfortunate spill into bowllessness. We're Rorschah's split pea soup stain. And here we are millions of years later trying to give form and name to the mistake. Everyone says it looks like a butterfly when clearly it's a vagina.

The world changes by generation as a snake sheds. Over the years, the snake has remained just as snaky as its been from its first days of snaking, but the skin now sloughs off with such rapidity that the surface is scarcely tangible, more a constant exhalation of culture and invention. The first cell thrown overboard steadily drifts away by the push of discarded skin....
Read More

The heat has a way of nagging me into subordination, so I'm throwing rocks at the sun to snuff it out. So far I've hit my ceiling twice.

Sight was quickly lost to the quaint charm of symbols: bison stick-figures, crosses, stop signs. Sound was perverted by the spoken word and school bells. Touch fought valiantly, only to be bested by Braille's chicanery.

Smell and taste have remained undefiled over the years by selflessly sustaining a charade of unsophistication. The lengthy play has overshadowed the players. Smell and taste have been atrophied to...
Read More

"The curse of time has infected you, my sweet boy! It twists all children by some age. Succumb not to placebos: alarm clocks, coffee. There are only a few coveted knacks to impede its inevitability: denial, passion, some shades in between. And though it may be terminal, you may yet live a long life and die a piddling death of natural causes."

Advice from my...
Read More

Let's take the bus!

The bus is a gallery of precise and public scents, designed to titillate and confound even the most seasoned odorologist; such galleries have the unfortunate side effect of translocating its patrons.

Dr. Turfundunger's recovered notes:

[scrawled]

"...
wilting basil then confectioner's sugar (the kind you find powdered on nickel bubblegum) then baked fish then the musk of a fit young man...
Read More

You can go a long time without touching a natural substance in a city. Between sneakers and tar and toilet seats and condoms, mankind has forged a sterile playground free from Nature's vulgar paw. It feels relieving in that predictable kind of way, like when you do a choose-your-own-adventure in reverse.

I am going to jump in mud.

I just got ambushed by germs. I was holding my own until one of them threw dirt in my eyes and pulled out a switchblade. Desperately he lunged and lodged his blade in my lucky deflectin' Bible, a trinket I have carried religiously since the age of ten in case of such scuffles. Now I recover and plot.