
THE LIST by Annie Delmedico
In movies, the end of the world makes everyone care about the right things, right when the right things are about to be gone. Not me. I want my money.
In movies, the end of the world makes everyone care about the right things, right when the right things are about to be gone. Not me. I want my money.
Susan who choked to death loved the husband, loved his neighborliness. She loved him from her driveway and windows, front and back yards, day and night dreams.
In order to write, I needed the writing process to disappear. But without the writing process, obviously I wouldn’t be a writer.
My presentation at the co-working space was a smash, meaning afterward people smashed the windows with rocks.
My 7th grade English teacher was just three toddlers stacked on top of each other. The middle toddler googled every question we asked on an iPhone. You could see it through his shirt, star-bright.
The world felt like something awful impending. June gloom had set in early; Mercury was back in retrograde. Everyone was jittery, uncertain, a little gun shy.
A rainbow is feeling down, suicidal even. It takes some pills and a bottle of gin to a park, ready to end it all.
It’s 5:34 am and John Wayne is singing to his horse. The shoot is behind schedule; they’ve gone all night. Wayne’s singing voice will be dubbed over.
That’s the Way of the Boss. That’s the Way of the Boss! Well, fuck.
You can tell yourself anything you want about yourself, even if it’s not true yet, and eventually it will be. Maybe.