• typoh commented on the post, everything 2 months, 1 week ago

    It’s easy, on a slow day when I can’t chase down my thoughts, to think that everything couldn’t possibly be as fine as it is.

  • typoh commented on the post, lemon 3 years, 11 months ago

    The porch was blindingly well lit, and as we sat Laura said that we just absolute must have vodka tonics, and it was all I could do to not throw a lemon at her head.

  • typoh commented on the post, enemies 4 years, 5 months ago

    Two years ago, had you asked me, I could never have fathomed that we would have come so far, and gone so awry, that we could have become enemies when once one.

  • typoh commented on the post, crow 4 years, 5 months ago

    As I sit in my room, surrounded by symbols of my wandering college debauchery — caffeine, alcohol, weed, decay — I wait for the crows to pick upon the remains of the life I once had.

  • typoh commented on the post, barrel 4 years, 9 months ago

    He was a barrel chested man, a man whose scarred and ever-stubbled chin and thick, burnt forearms spoke volumes and whose resonant, rolling laughter drew stares and nervous glances in crowded places.

  • typoh commented on the post, available 4 years, 10 months ago

    It’s a tricky thing to say you’re single, looking for a relationship, or the like. To say so means more than being uncommitted to anyone in particular, being open to a new lover. To say so means to be available, and this worried carries with it far more than denotation of sexual or social freedom. Emotionally available is one thing I am not.

  • typoh commented on the post, presented 4 years, 10 months ago

    She presented herself as what she always wished she could be, while a massive nagging thought lived and thrived beneath her perfectly sculpted hair: I’m not pretty, and I never will be.

  • typoh commented on the post, methods 4 years, 10 months ago

    As I sat in the library, delving into the riches of Karl Marx and Facebook, soaking in the cathartic silence, broken only by pencil squeaks, key clicks, and flipped pages, a syncopated, irregular and seemingly crescendoing drumming filled the space where silence had been and turned my jiving to writhing. I looked up. Some guy was drumming on the…[Read more]

  • typoh commented on the post, broadcast 4 years, 10 months ago

    There comes to be a point in every man’s life when he can no longer pretend to be satisfied, happy. Some inner space of self respect and pride grows as we age, and refuses to be ignored. We broadcast our sadness, daring anyone to ask, why?

  • typoh commented on the post, object 4 years, 10 months ago

    The object of my affection is always an evanescent thing. Something about that which dazzled for a tine before fading back into nothingness appealed to him, made him more secure in his own insignificance

  • typoh commented on the post, himself 4 years, 10 months ago

    Sometimes he wanted to ask himself questions, but this always proved troublesome. How can one ask themself a question when every day a different person answers back? It was really a hideous dilemma, which often left him bumbling about, directionless, having never consulted with himself about where exactly it was he was going.

  • typoh commented on the post, rise 4 years, 10 months ago

    Waking up day after day, aching, makes you never want to go to sleep. So as we frolic drunkenly, forgetting that the morning will come and we will be forced to rise to the gray, thorn ridden reality of our youth, let us not consider sleep until our legs tremble and our throats are hoarse from laughter and screams of forever.

  • typoh commented on the post, past 4 years, 10 months ago

    I’d like to think of each day as a freshly cleaned blackboard. But really, day after day, it’s as if my life is a blackboard never washed, with faint, bothersome, painfully present traces of the past. But to wash the blackboard would be to lie to myself, to others, and to the experience of living.

  • typoh commented on the post, local 4 years, 10 months ago

    I gre up on a little road in West Roxbury, Massachusetts. To this day, they never paved it even though when the wind blew hard enough, dollar bills flew from the windows of our neighbors’ houses. But I liked it that way. Coming home from a long trip, asleep in the passenger seat, the bump of that road let me know — home.