whore vidal

my hands ain't dirty as my mind
fucking in the bed of a foreignmade truck, in nowhere north philly 

fucking in the bed of a foreignmade truck, in nowhere north philly 

UNBLEACHED WHEAT

whorevidal:

The two cans sit. They are latticed by dust and they sit. Over a boxspring empty the dust falls, and onto the cans, and the cans just sit.

The house had eaves and you’d put furniture under them, a desk and a bed, a loveseat or a lamp. Eaves create their own space, they hold in their own. The…

writing teacher says that i should submit this

not that writing group is a competition but like if it was,

we’d all knew who won

UNBLEACHED WHEAT

The two cans sit. They are latticed by dust and they sit. Over a boxspring empty the dust falls, and onto the cans, and the cans just sit.

The house had eaves and you’d put furniture under them, a desk and a bed, a loveseat or a lamp. Eaves create their own space, they hold in their own. The house was forty-four feet tall and pre-war. Its walls were brick and its lights wouldn’t’ve met code.

The town was small and post-industrial. The industry fled &nd took hope with it. Small towns lost generations crawl into bottles and sing along sad songs but the light still gets in, got in, through windows under eaves in houses forty-four feet tall.

You go to a paint store to look at the chips and sometimes you buy paint. Steel-Cut Oats, Emu EggShell Ecru, Old Book Beige, Unbleached Wheat, Paper Pulp. These are the names of paints. One sister picks Emu. The other, Unbleached. Unbleached is all wrong. Just wrong. It’s her baby, her baby’s nursery. In the room in the house with the loveseat. She wins. Unbleached wins. We have to move the loveseat, she says. Three months, she says.

Buy the pans, find the rollers. They throw in the stirrers for free. She can’t lift anymore. You carry them out. Unbleached wheat. You carry them up.

Catalog of items in drawer of armoire of room in house unentered since **** ****** died there, ended there: pocket watch, nonfunctioning. Engraved: “To ______ _______, who was a son to me.” Pennies, four all in. ‘77, ‘81, ‘64, ‘82. One face up, lots of luck. An orange knit cap and a safety pin. A receipt, two gallons of milk, ‘79, a buck eighty three. A picture of he and I and she and half it bleached out, overexposed, red and yellow and red, you know how it goes.

You have enough family dug into enough of the same square mileage, you’ll never need for furniture. Your baby won’t need for furniture, from birth up ‘til

The day after she opened the newspaper, a Brinks truck driver brakes short, a crate of quarters decapitates the guard in the back. A picture of a high school classmate, arrests and alcohol made unrecognizable. A spaghetti dinner down at the firehouse and kids eat free and desserts are included and the paper drops, billows, then folds along creases, &nd this is nothing new, nothing that would shudder even to start.

Their father had told them once a story, a story about how used to be you bought a new car you took the day off work, you spent the day giving your neighbors rides around, in your new car. Such good didn’t happen anymore, anyway.

The two cans sit. They are latticed by dust and they sit. Over a boxspring empty the dust falls, and onto the cans, and the cans just sit.

but i don’t like any other songs

wwnorton:

Blake Bailey, authorized biographer of Philip Roth, continues to wait patiently for Roth to win the Nobel Prize in Literature.

life is very beautiful even now 

(via woodsaddle)

i did not mean to cut you off, just as you were telling me that i am amazing, and beautiful!!!

i’m drunk, i’m 27, everything i do is dumb. here’s part of something i wrote for writing group i almost have ideas but not quite

These are some facts I know about my father.

My dad worked overnights at an inventory company and all day and all his life and all over my state and maybe yours as a bricklayer. This I remember: he’d climb the old oak outside our second storey apartment window to wave ‘hi’ to me in my highchair. And he’d do it again the next—this is something that I know to be true about my father.

The scar on my chin is sixteen stitches outside, four on the inside. There is a picture my mom took of me, reflected twice in a mirror after the doctor, thirtytwo stitches outside, eight on the inside. In high school a boy I blew told his friends about me, “emma with the scar”.

When I watched kids, a six year old drew my face moon round and white, but for a black zig zag on the chin.

I was four and my sister was two and my brother was or wasn’t born yet. Our sled was a crate lashed to two cross country skies, and our families only car was an ‘87 Ford F-150, bloody red as a wound and as the day I was born and it was bought, paid cash and registered official, the day I was born. Our house was Victorian and bought for a whistle and 24k, and my dad woke my mom up every morning whistling ‘House of the Rising Sun’ and they both broke their backs ten years to add 10k to the property value. The ice was a frozen sheet and my dad had aimed me right toward a playground support pole. He ripped his jeans slipping running on the ice after me. He wore them many years afterward repaired, I don’t know how many and I don’t remember how many stitches. My mother laid me on the kitchen table after he brought me home. The neighbor woman visiting fainted.

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