It was a tempestuous inky night in autumn. Quietude befouled the air like the vengeful spirit of my mother, only occasionally interrupted by the vengeful cry of a long-suffering, vengeful bird. Due to an unfortunate bout of melancholy humor, I found myself thirsty, decaffeinated, and wondering whether Harriet Miers was the proper choice to serve on the Supreme Court for the rest of my lifetime -- which would hopefully be short.
The leaves whirled in a funnel around my near-starved frame as I passed alone through a landscape of unremitting bleakness, the ground wet with unearthly slime. At length I came upon a coffee house and bid myself seek comfort inside. Taking in the menu, I pondered what gave them the right to bestow fresh nomenclature on "tea," a sacred word for a leaf used by soothsayers to predict the horrible fates that would befall wicked souls? And why -- I paused to think -- did they insist on playing "house mixes" of Latin-jazz standards that had ceased to be relevant when my stupid parents were alive?
Oh Starbuck, your proud name is rendered as meaningless as the excess foam on my Caramel Macchiato.
I recognized the barrista as a boon one-night stand from my earlier youth. She had been a lustrous creature, a cheerful companion who parted her lips freely with no thought to her own pleasure, with great flaming tattoos licking up either side of her neck, hellfire seeking earthly form. I broke up with her after a couple of weeks because she was kind of a bitch.
Perhaps, she, too, found my habits unnerving. I understand that it might be difficult to companion a man who nightly sought fresh cat entrails with which he could tell the future. But how could I explain to her that I truly reviled the shitty Bloc Party MP3s that she insisted on sending me?
Regardless, my recent disease had disfigured my face beyond recognition, so she served me without comment. I sat then, and lifted my eyes to Baudelaire, wondering when my own early end would come: how I longed for the sweet taste of mossy death in my rotted mouth!
I'm glad Tom DeLay got indicted. What an asshole.
Instagram influencers are often absurd.
A good horror story is hard to pull off.
All commercials are a least a little weird.
Here are some recent
These actions stars were so bad at being badass, they were just ass.