You don't want to fool around, or have sex, or do anything sexual at all?
Remember kissing her stomach? There?s soft, invisible hair, right above her underwear.
Meeting someone and deciding that you're in love with them and then finding out that they don't love you can be a painful and disorienting experience.
Listen, I just wanted to warn you. There's some stuff in there which you're probably going to think is about you, and if you're thinking that, you might get upset.
I'm sure it won't be long until you find someone nice who loves you.
There is a hole in your heart.
One day someone reached in and then your soul leaked out. You filled it up with drugs and caffeine and television and drugs and pornography. But you should exercise more, instead of watching so much television.
"My last boyfriend liked to pretend I was dead. He would just totally ignore me, and I was turned on by it."
Could you give me some pointers on how you could tell I'm not your type? It might really help me accept whatever fallibility or shortcoming it is that I need to come to terms with.
I really love your company, but we're both young, and I don't think it makes sense to be in a long-term monogamous relationship at this point in our lives, when we're both meeting people and making new experiences.
I didn't really like you that much until I noticed how distracted you get when I try to tell you things about myself, and how you obviously stare at other women, especially when they're wearing stomach-baring tank tops and tight jeans.
You're just making excuses for not trying. There are lots of people out there who want to have sex with you. It's natural. You just have to give in, and stop being so neurotic about it.
Look straight into my eyes. And now pretend that you love me. Say that you love me more than you?ve ever loved anyone else.
Amidst a familiar, mundane kind of creepiness, parents and children reverse their roles, and everyone seems equally trapped in a pattern that continuously cycles between the search for a form of inter-human gratification and its disappointment.
This is an old story. The point initially was to try and imagine how people are capable of making each other suffer, to understand the casual, banal, indifferent side of violence; the perpetrator's side.
Why bother? I guess we can assume that people who do these things are evil. But if that were the case, I think we'd have to accept that we ourselves are evil, at least a little. Or else how would we recognize ourselves, when we casually make others suffer or ignore it when someone else does?
An extensively researched non-fiction piece depicting the author's life in a radically imagined parallel reality. Sadly, even boundless material and artistic success can?t seem to absolve this imaginary protagonist from paranoia, greed, and hypocrisy.
Familiar shades of humiliation and paranoia, reinvigorated by the conventions of the aeronautical disaster genre, according to which violent thrills and sexual titillations alternate with minutely researched technical descriptions and crippling psychological introspection.
Low-rent pop losers ascend into thin air with a bitter-sweet indictment of their favorite pleasures. Like a house on fire, or a five-car pile-up pop song.
Production by Hans Maria.
A lo-fi hi-tech reworking of the gospel standard. Intended as a club hit for sex-abstinent Christian teens, or a work song for mentally disabled death row inmates, the song moves through several schizophrenic instrumental sections and a rap breakdown before reaffirming the power of our Lord and Savior in an uplifting, hi-energy climax.
Sebastian Ischer knows you better than you know you. Here is his most ambitious work to date, a family saga, a personal journey toward wish fulfillment that ends in a crises of stasis. Watch the death count get high. Black out your windows. Feel the love. ~mw
Sam Tsitrin's long-awaited call-to-armageddon for the poetist scene. This manifesto may make you shave your head in anger!
Eben Anderson recalls his first love in this bitter-sweet coming-of-age story featuring his mother and an old single-shot rifle.
Maybe he's so bored this afternoon, he starts dissecting himself, digitally.
An hommage to the arctic serial killer genre: the victim screams and pants while the killer follows in silent determination, suppressing any sign of the pleasure and excitement of the chase, since it might take the form of a light-hearted squeal.