Skip to the article, or search this site

Home: The Toast

Previous entries in the series can be found here. Most recently: Texts From Emma.

uuuuuuugghhhh my life
what is it?
what’s wrong?
uuuuuuuugh
is there something specific that’s the matter?
or anything I can do to help?
uuuugh
my liiiiife
do you want me to come over?
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuughghghghhhhh

 

oh my god
what
this guy
this publisher guy
is asking me about my favorite canto in Child Harolde

that’s like asking someone to pick who’s hotter
his half-sister or his cousins
it’s literally impossible

 

hey
do you think we could just stay in tonight maybe
i’m so wiped out from last night
we could just stay in
get in our jammies and not see anyone
maybe build a fire

oh wow
really?
hahaha i’m kidding
there’s already a sex pigeon in your room
i’m coming over in five minutes
oh
btw
do you have that cream from before
the anti chafing cream
we’re going to need a lot of it

to prevent chafing
oh okay
choirboys chafe easy imho

 

uuuuuuuughhh
nothing’s any good

what’s the matter
EVERYTHING
do you realize i’m never going to be able to have sex with the rain
i didn’t know you wanted to have sex with the rain
of course i want to have sex with the rain
how can you even say that
i feel like you don’t even know me

maybe
you should focus
on all the things that you can have sex with
yeah
maybe
i just want to live

right
i want to have a threesome with the moon and jealousy
right yeah
and i want to do it with the rain but i can’t
uuuuuuuughhhh

i should just go die in Greece
what?
nothing

 

I wrote a poem today
do you want to hear it

okay
Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferosity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.

This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a DOG,
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead Nov. 18, 1808.

When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,
Unknown to Glory, but upheld by Birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below.
When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the Soul he held on earth –
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
hey totally unrelated

do you remember how many children i have?
i’m trying to do a tax thing right now
and i have nooooo idea haha

like
it’s for sure SOME

no sorry
fuck
i gotta write some letters
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuughhhhh

$
Select Payment Method

Loading ...

Personal Info

Donation Total: $1.00

Add a comment

Skip to the top of the page, search this site, or read the article again

(Close this.)