Stories

Anything > Jail

On by Kelsey Love In Stories | comment  

Let me tell you something about jail. It is not nice.
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In fact, when you are laying in your tiny, dark, crime-planning booth of doom, you start to think of unusual things you’d love to be doing instead. I‘d rather be kissing a llama with allergies. I’d rather lick the sweat off of Kimbo Slice. I’d rather eat fire. I’d rather punch my best friend’s grandma in the face and never apologize. I’d rather sing the theme song from Family Matters out loud for the rest of my life.
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Police officers must see my dainty little woman wrist and think, “Hmm, that looks like it wants a cuff buddy. I’m going to attach it to this woman over here who is picking inedible pieces of crud out of her hair and taste-testing them for pleasure. Yep. Oh, she’s also a mouth breather and wants to swap shanking stories? Double yep.”Just to be clear, I do not enjoy this.
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Also, to the jail’s credit, but much to the dismay of people who eat, they do provide you with “food.” It involves slimy surprise meat, a golf ball sized mushy brown apple, the driest dessert cookies ever made, reject pretzels from 1989, and hot water to wash the e. coli down your disapproving gullet.
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The officers all seem to hate their life, hate you, and be really busy. They are annoyed by simple questions like, “Can I please use the phone?” Or, “Will you tuck me in?” They don’t have time to answer anything because they are too busy being busy. They also say, “i’m just doing my job” a lot. Well if your job is to be hateful and busy and dress like a police officer, what is my job? I guess it’s to be dangerous and crazy and dress like a criminal. Which is why every person who is arrested should be provided with a crime kit.
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If police officers are given the necessary tools to play their part, why shouldn’t I? Just to make sure everyone is, “just doing their job,” they should make it easy. You, policeman, get a gun, a uniform, a badge, and a distaste for humankind because you’re in control? Fine. I want a sprinkle of crack, a rusty knife, something to set on fire, and a family member to beat because I’m out of control.
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Let’s recap:
Dragons > Jail.
Mucus > Jail.
Toddlers and tiaras > Jail.
1,000 mosquitos > Jail.
Poop flavored jelly beans > Jail.

Anything > Jail.

A$AP Rocky – “Ridin’” (Feat. Lana Del Rey)

On by Alex Mitchell In Music, Stories | comment  

A$AP Rocky met Lana Del Rey at a wine tasting in Sonoma. He was there with his boys at a quaint, Italian influenced winery called Felice Cantina, eating mini mounds of blue cheese and taking pulls of Cantina’s signature Pinot Noir. After spilling the sweet Denominazione di Origine Controllata on his linen Rag and Bone button up, A$AP tossed his bottle, took off his shirt, and went outside to find a forty. That’s when he saw Lana.

Lana was slumped in a small garden, crushing a patch of Marigolds under a short, pleated, Polo skirt. Half of her was engulfed by a hydrangea, as if she was being slowly absorbed. A$AP stopped as he walked past. “Lana?”

Lana moaned in a wavering, masculine tone, “Oh. Hey A$AP.”

“Yo why you sound like sound like a base head?”

Lana sat forward out of the bush, retro waves intact from the week before, her pout painted Easter pink. “I don’t care what you think about me A$AP. I don’t care what anyone thinks about me. I was born to die. Just let me decompose.”

“Yo girl I was just playin’. Why you all up in those bushes though?” A$AP stepped over the small wire fence lining the garden, acutely aware of the dirt below his bright white Jeremy Scott Adidas.

Lana cried, expressionlessly. “You want the truth? No one respects me. It’s like I’m the joke of the industry.”

A$AP scrunched up his face. “Yo, didn’t you debut number two on Billboard. Bitch you got more money than me. All types of fans. What’s the real problem here?”

Lana sighed. “It’s not about money, A$AP. I don’t know, maybe I’m just having summertime sadness in this dark paradise of mine.”

“Well, damn girl.” A$AP’s voice lowered as he knelt next to Lana, his hand cupping her neck underneath a popped pastel Lacoste collar. “If I made a confession would that lift your spirits?”

“Maybe. I don’t know just tell me. Nothing matters anyway.”

A$AP stood up, pulling Lana with him. A twig stuck perfectly in her hair like a DIY bobby pin she found on ETSY. “The first time I heard ‘Blue Jeans’ on the radio, I thought to myself, shit, if I could have that girl I would feel like a million dollar man for the rest of my life. That voice you got, it haunts my soul.”

Lana smiled. “You mean you don’t think my creativity came and went with ‘Video Games’?”

“Naw bitch.”

“Oh A$AP!” Lana grabbed the rapper’s face and kissed him deeply, tasting the tang of his golden grill and the remnants of Northern Californian class. “Can I ride you?”

“Right here?” A$AP asked surprised. He reached for his RUN DMC belt buckle while looking over his shoulder at the Cantina.

“No A$AP, can I ride your coattails back into the starlight.”

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah baby. You can be my Jackie O.”

Lana gripped the ends of A$AP’s cornrows, her heels slowly sinking into the soil below her. “And you can be my Johnny,” she whispered, a devilish smile spreading into the corners of her big, brown, lucky eyes.

Love and Fortune Favor the Baristas

On by Alex Mitchell In Stories | 3

By Allie Marini - 

The worst part about getting what you want is that now you have something to lose. There’s fearlessness in being a loser—all you have are risks to take, things to venture, things to gain. There’s a world of possibility open, and anything seems worth the risk because there’s nothing of value to hold onto yet. All you have are the silver linings to discover in your dark clouds—because you need those, to keep looking.

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Chemo Dick

On by Alex Mitchell In Stories | comment  


When I was a bit older than twenty my mom dropped me off at sperm clinic in Memphis, Tennessee. She wanted me to put a few good swimmers on ice in case chemotherapy turned them all into sinking, malformed tadpoles. “Take as much time as you need, honey,” she told me.

I’d already been doing drugs in Memphis for two months. Allie and I were living in the Ronald McDonald House, on hiatus from college to fight the rare cancer wrapped around my pineal gland – two centimeters of malignant cell growth in the center of my fucking brain.

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An Object of Beauty

On by Alex Mitchell In Blog, Stories | comment  

I didn’t think I could make it. Six months in LA traffic and I was feeling the rage. Over Christmas, on a week trip to Portland everyone was asking about my exploits in the big city. “Phew,” I told them, “traffic is killer.” Which, truthfully, is on par with “the weather is unbeatable.” Or, “we have an IHOP down the block with valet service.”  Just kidding I love/hate that fact. However, when driving becomes such a significant, depressing portion of your life, it comes up in conversation with people who bike to work.

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