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Why shouldn't I make money off my face on your T-shirt? It's a good face.

Can't you just give me money crazypants?

You tell me all about how much you make, despite your total lack of social graces.

Don't you want me to succeed?

Don't you want to tell people stories about what I look like when I coaxed disaster by virtue of chemical destruction?

Can't you just get me connected?

I see you looking Old Man. Your sight is only worth a slight of my touch.

Won't you give me a contract in exchange for a glance of my pussy, reflected in your neo-masculine compact underneath a lacquered desk?

Can't you let me blackmail you?
I can take your wife and your girlfriend out to Tea while you set a time for Tee. 

I don't need enlightenment.

Philosophy has taught me that success is only worth the cost of print in a magazine.

I'll make you money,
a wit,
fit for bawdy

Make me famous-
Why not take credit for a star on the rise?

If not for the thrill of altruism,
then for the succulent satisfaction of a human catastrophy,
airbrushed to glow like a supernova, finally spared of the mercy of its ennui.


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'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…