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(Source: erarg)



Jimmy died today. Or yesterday. I can't be sure.


"Sucks man," Jimmy used to say.

He’d sip his vodka martini and wait for me to finish bitching and moaning about the girl I was dating. Sometimes he’d reach behind the bar and top himself off. The bartender hated it but Jimmy didn’t give a fuck. It was only a $50 tip to let us mess up his…

Repost of a private short. 

Meet two hundred people


You were talking about the news I think. Or art. One of the two.

I munch on the ice cubes left over from my vodka tonic. Jimmy used to joke and say ice cubes are built in hangover cures.

Fuck. I was thinking about Jimmy again.

"…I think things should be original, like a singing a song, but…


"Why are you eating that, didn’t you just say you were full?" He said. 

Tammy kept eating he pastry and glared at him through the rearview mirror. She finished the tart pastry in two bites. 

"If I don’t eat it, it’ll go bad," she said, her voice raised and angry. 

"Do you know why I’m skinny?" he asked. "I’m skinny because I don’t eat pastries after I’ve just eaten dinner."

"Well I bought it, I might as well have it," she retorted, bitterly. She looked out the window and watched Beijing pass her by, taking a few moments to stare at a younger woman’s skinny legs, devoid of cellulite, flabbiness, and other things that plagued her body. It was the kind of woman her husband stared at incessantly - the kind of woman he worked all his life for, the woman he wanted, the other woman.  

This wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned her weight to her, though he was careful not to say she was fat. He danced around the issue, though, he was just as disappointed. Tammy kept him close - though when she tried to kiss him, he’d pull away, as if not attracted any more. She’d put her head on his chest, not caring if he’d make a face. 

The passion was gone. And she knew it. 

Every so often he’d sneak off for drinks with his friends. The evenings grew long without him, and soon she knew that he’d talk about her behind her back. He wasn’t the type to sleep around, and yet, being alone forced her to think like she wasn’t good enough. 

So she ate. And in that glorious moment when she chewed on the pastry, she was happy. 

But only for a moment. 

Then the sinking feeling of looking at her body as she passed a glazed window, or a mirror. 




I can never get any work done

hay. whatchudoin’?


I can never get any work done

hay. whatchudoin’?



(Source: welovekanyewest)

(Source: sidewindervx)



(Source: coolator)



Fuck your ethnicity

When Ann was eight, a black girl grabbed her hair and started slapping her. It was her first two weeks in an American school, but she already managed to piss off by accidently calling her a negro. Ann had just moved to the country and had no concept of race or the word ‘negro’ but once the black girl was pulled off of her, she never said the word again.

*          *          *

Mitchel’s pistol fell out of his pocket and slid across the red tile floor, it’s metal casing still bearing the scratches from where someone filed off the serial number.  Ann stared at the gun while marinating the bulgogi for the next day.

            “Why did you let him in?!” said Ann, in hushed Korean. Minsook ignored her, picked up the gun and pulled out the cartridge. It’s empty, though the smell of gunpowder burned the hairs in his nostrils, the barrel still warm.

            “He’s dangerous!” said Ann.

            “No,” Minsook said. “He’s just a boy.”

            “Get him out of here!”

            “He stays.

            “It’s not your problem!” screamed Ann. “Why are you getting involved?!”

Mitchel rolls over on his side and Minsook see’s it – the hole in Mitchel’s calf, a wound that luckily passed by his shin bone.

            “Grab me the first aid kit, a needle and some thread,” said Minsook.  Ann glared back, unhappy. “Please,” Minsook added. Ann sighs and makes a move.

            “Give me my fucking gun back, chink,” snarled Mitchel. His face was blank, as if trying to not give away the fact that he was scared.  Outside, the sounds of footsteps

            “Pride will kill you, young man,” Minsook said. 




Don’t blow my high

A dead dog takes its final breath on the side of Compton Blvd.

Minsook saw this dead dog on the side of the road when he was six years old. Blood stained the chocolate lab’s fur and the asphalt around it, forming a dark red scab of bloody concrete. The dog’s black collar was still wrapped around its neck, and it’s tongue hung out, as if it were a loose shirtsleeve from a trash bag of donation clothes.

Someone loved this dog. Someone took care of it and treated it as a family member.

Cars drove by at full speed, moving the air through Minsook’s straight black hair. He could have sworn these cars sped up when they saw him, as if speeding up helped them ignore the dead animal on the side of the road. He stood over it, unsure of what to do.  

Eventually someone led Minsook away. “Someone should have kept him indoors,” they said, and grabbed Minsook by the shoulder, turning him away from the dead dog. “It’s their fault for letting him out.”

*          *          *

Kendrick Lemar’s Blow My High plays on a scuffed up stereo system.

Smoking out,

Pouring up,

Keep that lean up in my cup,

All my car got leather and wood

In my hood we call it buck

Everybody wanna ball,

Holla at broads,

At the mall,

If he up, watch him fall,

I can’t fuck with ya’ll


Mitchel Jones sprints down Compton Blvd, a gun in hand, not bothering to watch the dodge minivan close in on him. Mitchel ran track in high school, though that was when he still attended class, before his brother got shot, and before he was officially accepted as a Crip. He kept a blue bandana tucked neatly in his back left pocket, though now it was nowhere to be seen.

He ran out of ammo five minutes ago. Now he’s running for his life.

Pussy ass hoe, niggas.

I can’t fuck with ya’ll

Four 17 year old boys in a dodge minivan storm down Compton blvd, each with their grandmother’s hand gun tucked under their seats, red bandana’s hanging out their right pockets. Mitchel turns the corner and disappears into an alley.

“Oh shit, there he go, there he go!”

The driver puts his foot down and accelerates, the tires barely able to take the weight of the van.

Bitches all up in my business,

I can’t fuck with ya’ll

Mitchel grew up around these streets, playing ball with his older brother and cousins. His cousin showed Mitchel his first pistol a block from where he was running, a black plastic glock that held seventeen 9mm rounds. They blasted all seventeen rounds into the ocean that evening in long beach, then drove off before some old white granny called the cops.  

Industry of counterfits

I can’t fuck with ya’ll

The van’s sliding door opens behind Mitchel, though he can’t hear it over the sound of his own breathing. Two gun shots ring out, one of them missing Mitchel and burying itself in the stucco wall of a home. The other clips Mitchel in the thigh as he turns the corner once more.

Mitchel finds the back door of a Korean restaurant, the only one in the neighborhood. He slams on the door with his fist, ignoring the fact that it’s two in the morning, and the restaurant has closed. He hears footsteps of the bloods echo down the alley way.

Suddenly the door opens. Minsook, now forty, drags Mitchel inside. Shutting the door quietly behind him.