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This, all of it, is called irony. It is not called Progressivism.

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I dreamt that my MacBook’s trackpad was a vagina and every time I touched it, it snapped shut and broke my forefinger.

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Very close to my downtown apartment was a small overgrown lot complete with a locked 10 foot high chain link fence. I contacted the owner and asked if I could use it for a garden. They said yes, that they’d be glad to have it cleared at least, and gave me the key to the fence’s lock. For two years in a row now I’ve had a hell of a garden. That’s right, I’m living the dream.

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Necessity was the mother of invention, now consumerism is. A recent trip to Bed Bath & Beyond overwhelmed me so much, I did some subsequent research and have compiled the ultimate guide to bedding.

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So you’re kind of on the verge of going up to the machine and just typing in all the stuff for him because, at this point, you have all the screens and selections memorized. In order. You don’t even read them, really, you just punch in the info before the machine asks for it because you’ve done this so many times.

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When I came here it was because of the quiet and calm it afforded. I wanted a place to retreat, where I could sulk or celebrate or create new memories from nothing. A place far from the gunshots that rang out in my old neighborhood, in the crumbling house that sat at the edge of a crooked cobblestone street, squeezed between the decay of the ghetto and houses too dilapidated to gentrify.