Hanging out in the daytime.
To properly get into this story, I have to take you back in time to 2009. I was about 30,000 feet in the air, clutching my armrest for dear life as the tiny plane I was on dropped thousands of feet in the air. Maybe it wasn’t literally thousands of feet , but it was enough to inflict a fear of flying deep into my heart for years.
Tea is for cold days — coffee is for every single day.
We talked about butts, burgers, and brains.
The fact is, fiction won’t sell anything on the Internet.
I heard her voice before I saw her — that flirty, monotonous tone that I first heard shrieking in pleasure as her lady-parts got pummeled to by James Deen in Backdoor Teen Mom.
Hartford, 2004. I got dragged to a renaissance fair and, sitting in the back seat of the car, pretended to be asleep. The girls up front talked about me and said they both had a little crush. My heart melted, but my eyes remained closed.
The Internet is pulsing with stories about forlorn writers fantasizing about penning their masterpiece from a little room on a swiftly-moving Amtrak train. I’ve recently conquered a a fear of flying, but before that happened, I rode a lot of trains. I’ve had pleasant trips from New York City to Montreal and boring rides from Connecticut to Georgia.
Last night, for no particular reason, I decided to not to take my Klonopin. Let’s backtrack: I’ve been on this drug for about three years straight now.
This is an excerpt from Jeremy Glass’s new book, Aimless, a collection of short stories featuring bursts of fictional oddities, cerebral essays, and various references to sexual fantasies gone terribly awry.