Only a few (my roommate and his dog) will witness the ceremony of tossing my laptop battery into the creek, but, in the coming days and weeks, when it becomes apparent just how dead and gone I have become, all my internet family and friends will mourn over my deactivated accounts.
Music is dangerous. It holds memories and forgotten feelings like a sonic sponge you can squeeze whenever you masochistically please.
I went on Chatroulette for maybe eight minutes. It was winter and freezing. I was in the middle of a bout of seasonal affective disorder, just dyed my hair gray and felt trapped in my apartment. I saw a vagina, a penis and…