At six-thirty a.m. on December twenty-sixth, 2001 it was cold in Chicago, right around twenty-five degrees on the thermometer outside my kitchen window. I drove my Porsche 928 to work that day because my Audi was still in the body shop. The Porsche wasn’t stock, none of my cars were. It had headers and some […]Read more "Luck, not skill."
The decrepit couple shuffled their way into the diner, they were dusted with snow and didn’t bother to brush it off. They had to be in their 90’s, it took a solid New York minute to traverse the ten feet from the doorway to their booth. “Where’s my bag Bill, I TOLD YOU TO BRING […]Read more "Breakfast at the Shelby Cafe"
It’s so fucking hard to be a dog in India. No one pets them, people stand away and keep their hands close, just-in-case. Like being a man in America, but who would trust THAT dog. Who, in their right mind anyway. Dogs carry disease and go from docile to snarling in less than a heartbeat. […]Read more "So fucking hard to be a dog in India…"
By Jamie Howton, 2013 I dig myself holes, the blackest of emotional oubliettes that I willingly and repeatedly climb down into. No light penetrates. No love is perceivable. The end is right there. I wallow in my own despair, my own sorrow, my own anguish this is a poisonous place, it doesn’t support real life. […]Read more "What I do."
Approximately 22,000,000 minutes ago my mother died. I have felt angry that she died for most of this time, angry, betrayed, abandoned. I am trying to reconcile those feelings with the reality of the situation and I am certain she didn’t want to die – it was an aneurysm that killed her. She didn’t leave […]Read more "Putting down my burden."