“You can’t even make a joke anymore.” “Everyone is too up their own asses with this PC bullshit.” “George Carlin would have something to say about this!” This is all I’ve been hearing lately. Everyone seems to be up in arms about not being able to tell a joke without suffering the most heinous of fallout. They’re so convinced everyone
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No, I’m not broken hearted. Just disappointed.
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There are things I have built into me, things I can’t quite explain. I can be just as specific by calling these things “stuff”, but that somehow makes it sound gross. “There’s stuff inside me.”
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Dusk settled on the Northern California horizon. It was the first day of August. Mercury was no longer in retrograde, and it was Desdemona’s birthday. It had been a good day too. Her coworkers had brought cupcakes into work, all her writer pals had made sure to wish her a happy birthday, and she had a special dinner planned with
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Daniel Aegan 