Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

Things bore me. I pick up a book—an interesting book with lots of fucking at the beginning—put it down, and start another with less fucking and less descriptions of the female form. I begin a short story—or a post, or a poem—just to save the draft and forget about it. This listless ennui disheartens its …

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Sometimes I forget other people have feelings. Sometimes that they’re even human. I awoke to the sound this morning. My world shook and I was ripped from my dream. I’m consumed by whatever madness lives within me. The pressures of just smiling weighing me down. I look in the mirror and see the edges cracking. …

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Has it been 13 years since The Marshall Mathers LP found its way into my collection? A 17-year-old, skinny high school student whose music collection was limited to the disenfranchised post grunge albums and industrial rabble-rousers proclaiming god was dead. I heard about Eminem—hi, my name is cheekacheeka Slim Shady—but rap was for assholes with …

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I hate, no, I loathe, no, despise. Yeah. Despise. I despise No-Shave November. And it’s not for the pity reason that I cannot—genetically or professionally—grow a beard, but all the posts declaring that real men don’t need pre-selected month to grow a beard. They’ll post Internet memes and photos of their lion’s mane made up …

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