So today I told mom that I want boobs just like her when I’m older. I told her I want boobs but not the kind of boobs that sag like hers. I want the kind of boobs she had before I was born. The boobs I saw in pictures back when she worked as a stripper at Scarlett’s Cabaret on Hallandale Beach Boulevard and I-95, which is the strip club right in front of the trailer park where I was born. Mom didn’t really think she was gonna give birth but I was ready. Came right out on the linoleum kitchen floor. Mom didn’t want to stain the carpet. In any case, mom said I can’t have boobs because I’m a boy and boys can’t have boobs. I remind her that boys have boobs. They’re just different than girl boobs. I remind her that even some of the boys at Scarlett’s had girl boobs and the customers didn’t seem to mind. Men are stupid, she said, but those boobs are not for you. Mom said those are decorative boobs and I told her I knew that. But I don’t care. I want to get fixed up when I’m grown up. I don’t want a flat chest or hairy man boobs. I want real boobs. The kind that make all the men go crazy. The kind that make men worship you. The kind that make men scream hallelujah Jesus Christ, hallelujah. Hallelujah? Mom asked. Hallelujah this! She screamed. My boobs are the reason why I gave birth to this mess. The house? I asked. Not the goddamn house she yelled back. I think I pissed mom off today, but I don’t care. I have dreams. Besides, I love this mess. Even when she opens her mouth.
When & why did I kill creativity in my life? When I was a little boy, I wanted to be a photographer. When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a writer. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be a businessman. When I was an adult, I wanted to be a writer. […]
For the past year, my emotional readjustment has been more than mildly drugged. On occasion I’ve lured an inner ataraxia out with the use of two or three Benadryl. Diphenhydramine is not only my favorite histamine antagonist…
AD: What makes you most vulnerable? AD: Unicorns. Not being a unicorn. Zombies. Spanish-language zobmies. Corn. Wheat. I already answered this question last week. What makes me most vulnerable is answering the same damn question again because maybe I’ll screw up and say something different. Say something that will contract what I said before, like […]
1. Who are you? Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I am a teacher, at least that is what I tell myself. I’m also a writer, but that’s not who I am. I’m also a marketing director on Monday, Wednesday and Friday–and sometimes Tuesday and Thursday, but that’s only when I feel like being a […]
Once upon a time, Yellow met Blue. Yellow was high and his face was blue, probably because of all the smoke in his chest. Blue thought, this is cool. Yellow can hold his breath for a long time while smiling and dancing with a broom. Clowns are never blue. The room was always smokey. Jumbo […]
- Why did I kill creativity?
- Formicidae by Larry Leiva
- AD: Self-Interview, Part II
- AD: Self-Interview of the Self
- The Theory of Color
- Non sequitur review of “Who’s Irish” by Gish Jen
- Almost Dorothy Interviews Almost Dorothy About Fried Chicken and Other Things
- Schools Suck and I Know How to Fix Them
- Donate to Reading Queer on Give Miami Day!
- Shabby Little Rabbit
- Reading Queer "Voices Carry" Fundraiser @ The Hotel Gaythering - South Beach readingqueer.org/2015/05/readin… via @readingqueer 3 months ago
- Why did I kill creativity? wp.me/pwDWB-1YJ 3 months ago
- The Reading Queer Writing Academy invites you to experience "Writing Bootcamp", an intensive prompt-driven poetry... fb.me/7syJffgs9 5 months ago
- AD: Self-Interview, Part II wp.me/pwDWB-1Yz 6 months ago
- AD: Self-Interview of the Self wp.me/pwDWB-1Yv 6 months ago