Chores

If I died and stood face to face with God, the first question I'd ask is, "Do humans have free will?" No matter his answer, my second act would be a parting middle finger.

I wish I was on the beach with my family instead of bent over texts in dim, midnight lighting. Is this how it's going to be? I don't know if I want this.

Even though my dog can't stand, she's taller than the rest.

It doesn't matter how much I hide myself, because I still have these shitty tattoos. Maybe if I was a man of significance I wouldn't be afraid. But I'm not, and the creeping ink strangles me in my sleep. The past is permanent.

Ocean Burn

"Today..." he scratched at his neck and cleared his throat. "Today I am reminded of love." The audience was smiling. "Of companions, adventures, warm relationships. I'm looking at you all, all your happy faces. I'm looking at my best friend, next to his beloved." He paused and closed his eyes. The ocean's behind me. I can smell it. "But I'm not thinking of any of that, any of you. I'm not thinking of college or camping or vacations in Canada. I'm thinking of my dog."

One of the groomsmen immediately approached the pulpit. "Hey, Barry, why don't you come on down?" Barry ignored him.

"She didn't want much, and she had no self-pity. She found joy in her frustration. I'm looking at all you well-dressed people, your earrings and leather shoes. She couldn't fucking walk, yet all she wanted was someone to love. You're all healthy and pampered with your trinkets and yachts, your Cadillacs and cocktail parties. You have it all, and what do you want? More money. More sex. More toys. More fucking movies to watch. Well I just want my dog back."