MYLES ZAVELO lives and writes in London.

It’s ten o'clock in the morning. It's already raining inside the radiators. Tonight will be another night at graduate school. This is not one of those strictly cosmetic situations. 

See, I’m dealing with the most hardass feelings I can find. They’re under my bed, in my closet, on my floor. These are pretty hardass-to-reach places. I can’t do much about the hardass feelings. 

Well, except cry. (Yeah yeah yeah: cry cry cry.) When it comes to crying, I am autistic perfection. 

I might have the body of an adult, but I am not an adult.

My life is a sad, bad, unplaceable movie; I wouldn't wish this flick on my best friend. 

Whatever, it’s so whatever, it’s not like my hardass feelings are going to change the end of the world forever.

I came to graduate school because I had nowhere else to go. You can get about thirty different masters here. I picked one at random. An uncle helped me out with the application.


Yesterday, in the news: an all-star 80s gymnast died of pneumonia.

And a flash flood nightmare in southern New Jersey.

And a family of four in a furniture store brutally massacred.

And an unearthed time capsule brought back memories for alumni at a local high school.

And a local drug dealer who’d hid a stash of cocaine in a chewing gum pot was sent to prison.

And this psycho teen shot his 'rents, shot his grand'rents, shot up the school down the street. 

And then this lazy teen tried convincing his ‘rent that the bong she’d found in his room was upholstery cleaner.

And the oldest person in the world died. This woman was from southern France. She was a hundred and twenty-two. Her eyes were so worn out. 

And a serial killer was put down by the state. In the late 70s, he’d strangled nineteen teenage boys with their own T-shirts. This piece of news made me feel like a witness. (That’s nineteen lethal teenage T-shirts.)

I blushed away from my computer.


Yesterday morning, online, I saw a dog with a mouth in its ear—teeth and everything—no joking! 

And at the student center, the Pro-Life Students were giving away coffee and donuts. 

And outside the student center, I saw a special education kid with Mick Jagger lips. 

And I realized I don’t fit in here: all the students wear T-shirts carrying political declarations. 

And there were sandbags everywhere. The staff really thought it was going to rain harder than it did. They’d spent most of the day before yesterday warning of the deluge. 

And I saw a round pale boy from one of my classes wearing a St. Jude Children's Research Hospital tee shirt that read, “This Shirt Saves Lives.” The boy isn’t easy on the eyes, but his ‘rents certainly love him, and that makes me love him.


Yesterday afternoon, I saw a poorass turtle in need. It’d been savagely clipped by a car. Its shell was broken, it was suffering badly. I called up the only people I could think of, but they said the turtle didn’t sound exotic enough to save. They said they weren't going out of their way. Their decision was final beyond final.

And a young transgender woman was arrested right in front of me. She was in possession of much too much MDMA. 

And I found myself in line at a fast food restaurant on the edge of town, trembling. There, I overheard: “I’m sorry. I ordered a smoothie. This is iced tea.”

And in the parking lot of the fast food restaurant, I met an older homeless woman named Naomi who told me she needed money for menopause.

And looking beyond Naomi, I thought Why’re homeless kids always such terrific skateboarders? 

And I overheard an extremely effective beggar get right to the point: I AM PETER. I AM HOMELESS. I AM HUNGRY. PLEASE HELP ME. ANYTHING HELPS ME.

And back in the car, I saw a billboard for the new law firm in town: NOTHING EASES THE PAIN LIKE A BIG, FAT CASH SETTLEMENT.

And at the gym, I saw that someone had defaced the mirror in the single-use men's bathroom: NO SEX WITH COPS.

And the gym was covered in Halloween decorations.

And at the gym, I couldn’t tell if this creep was trying to sell me candy or sign me up for a new religion, or both.

And I suffered an epileptic fit on the elliptical.


Yesterday evening—finally home free—I watched a boring porno in which a young and muscular knife salesman announced himself to a wishy-washy housewife. This woman did not know how to spend her days. This was clear as day.

And I read Dorothy Allison's 1983 poetry collection The Women Who Hate Me. 

And I finally finished this extremely oppressive doorstop biography on Joseph Goebbels.

And I attended my first Underachiever’s Anonymous meeting, the only one in Iowa City, a storefront church.

And after Underachiever’s Anonymous: Hope, Faith, Charity, and Love called me up. 

She wanted my phone number. 

I mean, She already had it.


I never buried a time capsule. 

Things were supposed to be beautiful by now. 

I had an uncle. I miss him more than pleasure. He was cool in a girly way, not a gay way. He threw an ashtray at his psychiatrist. That session was their first session. That session was their last session. The psychiatrist had offended my uncle badly. The psychiatrist wasn’t even a smoker. That's how the story went: The shrink wasn’t even a smoker. And the shrink was nothing but a shrink fuck.


Sometimes, I despise the way I eat chicken. 

And I get sad like a dirty little thing. 

And I phone up the 'rents and cry to them. 

And I hate the way I talk to waiters, waitresses, people. 

And I step outside and feel the pain; Maybe tomorrow…, I think. 

And all the ads in my life are about diabetes and maintaining erections.

And my biggest fear is getting locked outside forever. And then I’m the dumb idiot. (The one stuck looking inside.) And it’s all so very permanent.

But I don't explain my crying to the ’rents, I just do it to them.

See, there are almost no words—I am not exactly easing them into the news of my life. 

Now, whenever I do this to the ’rents—phone them up and cry to them—they’re completely confused and completely disturbed.

PLEASE! STOP! PLEASE!

See, these ’rents of mine are yellers and beggars. They’re yelling and begging in desperate unison. 

STOP! PLEASE! STOP!

But, I don’t, I won’t, I keep at it. 

WHAT ARE YOU DOING! TO US! 

Boy, I think even the dog—their dog, never exactly mine—feels bad for me. 

She must think I’m a little bitch boy.

Oh, Samantha, the unclefucking pitbull…

At least I’m not moaning. At least I'm not making animal noises. 

Plus, I’ve been volunteering at a homeless shelter a two-hour drive from here, and during the drives, I’m thinking that my mind is a dam about to break—and break, and break, and break. 

When I pull into the shelter lot, my deep grief feels a little shallower.

In the mornings, I phone the 'rents back up and go, “No, see, those were my roommate's cries, not mine.” 

I go, “You have got to understand my situation. The silly prankster’s always playing tricks.” 

But I don’t have a roommate.

I just have a situation that shouldn’t be mine.


Sometimes, I light way too many candles.

So many candles! I couldn’t possibly blow them all out! I’d lose my breath! 

And I forget my face because I don’t own a mirror, because I don’t want one, because I always see what I don’t want to—whenever I see a mirror. 

Please, a mirror?

Even the word sounds unnecessary.

And at night in bed with the lights out, I recognize my face with my hands.  

At night in bed with the lights out, I go: This is only a dress rehearsal, this is only a dress rehearsal, this is only a dress rehearsal, this is only a dress rehearsal, this is only a dress rehearsal, this is only a dress rehearsal, this is only a dress rehearsal.


The 'rents got married in the office of a rabbi who worked in an alcoholism clinic.

I like the 'rents. They’re good people. Having said that, their roof needs to be replaced.

They always encouraged me to be more creative. They told me that I was as smart as—if not smarter than—the whole school put together. They were preoccupied with my advanced reading level. I just needed to communicate better with my teachers.

They used to take me to cheer up the grand'rents. And then all the other people with dementia, too.

Sometimes the 'rents are practically rentables. 

When I was a small child, I wanted a lizard.

Or a turtle. Or a way out.


I can’t sleep nights. The grief keeps me awake. My name: it’s Adam, and it’s a crisis center, and it’s the Hoover Dam. And I try denying death—you know, the concept of it. At times, I am nothing but a burn victim; I wipe my clammy hands on the thighs of my jeans; the cycle cycles.

And I try withdrawing from Prozac, but the symptoms of Prozac withdrawal last and last and last and last and last and last and last and last and I want to open my veins in the tub vertically.

The warm water will encourage the blood. Everybody knows the whole tub scenario is romantic and honorable. And, custodially speaking, it’s pretty considerate.


My unashamed uncle was an unapologetic chain smoker. My unapologetic uncle was my best friend. He had so many friends. He was always the talk of the town. He was, in truth—for most people—just a fun idea of a friend—for a moment—a charming simulation. 

He had unlimited access to me. His hair was always sweat and shampoo. I worry I was his least favorite of the people he loved. I use the past tense for good reason. 

After he threw the ashtray at the shrink fuck, my uncle up and hung himself. It was the end of last summer. In Rome. In Italy.

Ended himself the day before he turned forty. Think he believed forty was the start of a worse hell. Did it two days before I started graduate school, and he knew it. 

How can a person be that selfish? I didn’t know a person could be that selfish.

The 'rents’d just started speaking to my uncle again. They had had a big fight about antiques a while back. Now they'd returned to exchanging thoughts on the weather and plumbing. 

Still, when the news broke, the 'rents were devastated, and it was surprising. 

What I mean is, I was more surprised by their devastation performance, then I was impressed by their devastation performance. 

They had no idea I was even more devastated than they were. You should've seen me on the floor during orientation with all the hope sucked out of my eyes. Couldn’t stop thinking about him dangling from the ceiling. Like a piece of modern art.  

Sure, my shock—a hunting knife up the ass—has been lengthy.


Now and then, I call up the fellas at the suicide hotline.

Now and then, I reread a very popular pamphlet on suicide.

The fellas mailed it over.

The pamphlet says Don’t do it!

But those fellas, they say nothing—they are long gone.


And the police in Rome were useless monsters, difficult-to-handle assholes, unhelpful in a foreign language.

Me and the 'rents were on the phone with them, trying to learn what had happened. 

Guess it’s still Roman times over there. 

My uncle didn't leave a note. He was always afraid of goodbyes. He was always on some government shit list. The body got shipped back. Italian stamps and such. The funeral was sad and disorganized. He deserved better.


My hung uncle and I didn’t not share needles. We got drunk on red headache wine. For a long time we used methamphetamine we believed was cocaine. For a long time we used cocaine we believed was methamphetamine. 

Look, it’s never been fair. 

This one time! I found ten bags of heroin in his coat pockets. You know exactly where those ten bags went. 

But we weren’t drug addicts or anything. As my uncle always said, we were just “killing time together in a feel-good way.” 

We were just forgetting about every little hardass hassle.


I wonder about my story sometimes. Like, is my story compelling? Or, does my story suck?

And then, hardly in the back of my mind, my uncle, with crossed arms and a smirk on his pale face, starts talking: Well kiddo, for starters, define SUCK why don't you?

Well! If you'd just let me finish! If you'd let me explain just about everything! 

(See, now I’m talking back to him…) 

But I think my uncle might be onto something.

Wish I’d his insight. Those eyes. Those guts. That intelligence. That beautiful broad chest.

I’ll get to those eyes—golder than golden—in just a moment—maybe.


I know I am kind.

I bleach my hair blond.

I drive at night in the rain.

I can’t remember the question.

I wash my teeth and brush my face.

I reflect deeply on narcissistic injuries.

I can’t imagine myself riding a bicycle.

I drink a bottle of champagne and then seizure. 

I remember the dead grand'rents on both sides equally. 

Then I bleach my hair blond, again, and it hits me real good and proper: it doesn't matter that my best friend’s dead. It doesn't matter if I’m a dirty little unclefucker; if he was an old dirty nephewfucker; if he knows my definition of SUCK exactly; if the 'rents still have no idea what went on between us; if me and him were also cool and easy midnight lovers—yes, we were capable, things weren't exclusively rough—at least not 100%.

What matters is that I loved him more than he was ever able to realize.

That truth—it kicks me. 


Sometimes, I want to knock on wood, but there’s no wood. On the other hand, sometimes everything’s made out of wood.

And the grand'rent with dementia, before she died, told me that I needed to have fun. She said it over and over and over and over and over again, like it was supposed to be really easy.


In his early twenties, my uncle was a part-time hustler out of The Port Authority. In his mid-twenties, he lived at Manhattan State Hospital. In his late twenties, he folded shirts at Brooks Brothers. He always joked he must’ve folded about thirteen million shirts. After a few years at Brooks Brothers, his painting career started up. He left New York when he was thirty, after his favorite restaurant closed. That place was my canteen.


Whenever he got paint on his clothes, he never cared. I would've cared, but that’s just me.

All his clothes were splattered. Even his suits were splattered. We called our oral sex moral sex. 

He called me Mister Beautiful, and I called him Mister Handsome.

Mister Beautiful, could you pass the salt?

Why of course, Mister Handsome.

We’d planned a whole big EuroTrip many times. I’ve still never been. To Europe. He was always talking about taking me to see the old death camps. He was very keen on them. 

And this one time is very definitely my favorite memory: we had way too much fun with a bottle of poppers at a midnight screening of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. By then I was almost as tall as him.

And this other one time we tried watching every single Academy Award winner for Best Picture; we firmly agreed on the beauty of Robert De Niro in the 70s. 

See, when I was with him, I was completely insulated from suffering. 

But, of course, the time we spent together flew. 

He was always disappearing and reappearing. 

Our relationship was “open.” I’d agreed on this but didn’t participate in the openness. I was in love. 

He was on disability for OCD. He did not suffer from OCD. 

In our old bedroom, he was nonstop, all night long, and I was dead to rights, every time. 

Our old bedroom means The Galaxy Motel. The desk clerk was hardly a person. 

Our old bedroom was a coliseum soaked in pay-per-view; when I was dead to rights and everything, it was sort of like nighttime under the pyramids. 

He’d wrap his hands around my neck like a citizen’s arrest and I'd say yes to everything. He'd hogtie me up and put a plastic bag over my head. He’d take the bag off my head. He’d put my lips between his legs. He’d teach me the alphabet upside down. He’d stuff his junk in my trunk. 

Whispered: “You’re really good at this, Mister Beautiful!” 

Whispered back: “No, you’re really good at this, Mr. Handsome!” 

Inside me, he was unspeakable, but I never tapped out, because I’m not some unclefucking quitter. 

But, sometimes, when I was dead to rights and everything, I did feel like a little unclefucking laughingstock. 

We Eiffel-Towered call girls, too. He liked doing that a lot. I didn’t like doing that. Not a whole lot.


It’s getting dark. I’d better close my blinds. I’d better lie down. This graduate school rug is burning the soles of my feet.

We made sure to cuddle, too.

And for a short time, I was taller than he was. Then he split the scene. Just up and left for Europe without me and said nothing on the way out. Like some criminal. 

Damn, man. 

Wow, Mister Handsome. 

And the last time—it felt like the first time—why? 


Some more facts about him, what I could regret forgetting later on, except I won't: he enjoyed fine wines; he was a good kisser; he dressed like a preppy wack job; he was primarily concerned with aesthetics; he was cleverly disguised as a person; he believed there were advantages to fascism; he owned a Beretta 418; he had lived in Boston, Bangkok, Iowa, Ireland, et cetera et cetera; he loved Paris most of all.

Perhaps he believed offing himself would help his career? 

He should’ve consulted the suicide pamphlet. The fellas would’ve mailed it over to Rome.

His favorite movie was The Phantom of the Opera (1989). His favorite book was How to Quit Drugs for Good: A Complete Self-Help Guide by Jerry Dorsman. His favorite bar was this Irish sports bar on Staten Island. So much so he spent Christmas Day 1997 there. He was a constant joker. This one time he went, Kids in Africa? What about the kids right around the corner? And, he was an organ donor; on the back of his driver's license, he’d written LIPS AND ANKLES.

This one time, he brought back two suitcases full of bedbugs from Paris.

And his exercise regimen was mostly sex and basketball.

But let's get one thing straight: his IQ was bigger than his—

I can’t even.


For a little while, at the beginning of the semester, I was meeting locally grown uncles out back in the park. 

I’d tell them my name was Teddy Hooker, and they’d tell me to keep the change. 

They hardly ever engaged in name exchange with me. 

I was making money. I was getting paid handsomely. 

But, I gave it up, the whole operation, and for good, too. 

That park always smelled like freshly baked bread.

Turns out I’m not some total sucker for uncles.

Turns out I was only a sucker for him.


GIRLS: Yeah, I like GIRLS.

GIRLS are really cool and super kind. 

You know, I think, for me, it’s GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS.

Look. I'm not some unpaid NAMBLA intern. I'm not some unbearably flagrant homosexual. It was just the way the wind blew on the day I fell for his eyes. 

In truth, before then, I hadn’t paid him much mind.

I was bored. I was waiting around. I was thirteen. 

He was wearing moccasins, blue jeans, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

On that fine day, he was full of greed, and I saw his eyes for the first time. 

He thought eyes were really gross things, but I enjoy them.

I had to crane my neck to see his face. My forehead reached his sternum. The heart wants what it wants, right? 

Well, I knew automatically—at thirteen, on the grass, in that field.


My GIRLFRIEND, she’s kind, a human being with a pulse, just about a miracle from the sky. 

Last night, we did dinner and a movie, and she was absolutely tremendous in bed. If my uncle was still alive, I wouldn’t even have noticed that she liked me.

Think I’m gonna marry her, I think I’m gonna ask her. This girl. This terrific girl. This beautiful girl. This girlfriend of mine. Finally some good fortune. Something to write home about. The 'rents’ll be proud. And, when the ring hits her finger, that’s when I’ll change for good. 

My brand new girlfriend doesn’t even know I had an uncle. She knows nothing about my acute and chronic devastation. Last night, sharing a piece of dessert with her, I was denying his paint-splattered blazers, which were trying to crowd my brain. I will never tell her.


I know I’m a good person. I know I could be useful. I could move to Brooklyn. I could write the backs of beach reads. Right right right, I won't, but I could.

Oh, right right right—my girlfriend, my life now, the name is Pauline, and she has very large, lovely breasts. God was good to Pauline. Sometimes, I don’t know how to handle them—I start to freeze when they’re in front of my face. Nevertheless, she is a beautiful ball of sunshine. I am so lucky to have this Pauline in my life. She looks like her brother's wife. She gets her nails done every week. She calls her periods commas. She has small shoulders. She has slept with many townies, but I don’t mind because so have I. She says she wants children, but doesn't want to give birth. She thinks childbirth will trash her figure, and I am on the brink of believing her. She loves dancing. She dances at nightclubs. She dances in laundry rooms. She dances with me as I’m trying to tie my shoes. I want to start taking her to more romantic places. Her birthday’s coming up, and I got her something really, really good—I promise.

And those midwestern city park uncles were shitheads. They looked at me like I was lonely cheese. That was correct of them.


Sometimes, I wish the 'rents knew what went on with my uncle all those years. They deserve the truth? I wish they knew he never kicked me out of bed. I wish they knew he ground his teeth in his sleep; what an ice machine! 

But going on the record with the 'rents would be dumb and dangerous.

Sure, he’s dead and all that, but it’d still be a whole big thing. I’m talking nonstop interrogation for hours and hours and hours in the kitchen. They’d want to call the police, but there would be nobody to arrest, and it wouldn’t matter if I told them that he really loved me.

They’d stop sending me through graduate school. That’s for sure. 


Okay, some of those midwestern city park uncles were nice guys. This one guy named SMS used to take me out every now and then. A few fancy five-star dinners here and there. He bought me so many drinks. Sugary cocktails up the wazoo. He only wanted to make out. He showed me pictures of his cats and dogs and kids and wives.

With SMS, I was all, Yes, I’ll have the onion rings and the lobster salad AND the cheeseburger. 

He died recently as well. Suicide, too. Self-inflicted carbon monoxide poisoning, the local newspaper said.


And I tried once—telling the 'rents over the phone—but just couldn’t spit the words out. I had an atrocious hangover. My brain was useless, far away. At the student bar the night before I’d mixed lagers with greyhounds, ciders with gin and tonics.

I was like, I’m still very badly in love with him…I mean, her…I mean, um, you know, my ex…Girlfriend…My ex-girlfriend…Um, yes, I’m still very badly in love with my ex-girlfriend…


I crack the blinds; I stare at the highway; I think I see him everywhere; I’m only half-dressed.

The truth is always fractured, non-surgical, never enough.

I rub my antidepressant on my gums; the way down is easier than the way up.

I would very much like to win some kind of justice—it all feels very universal…

The thought of people seeing me try is disturbing; I want to rip the eyes out of their sockets.

I hope I learn something new in graduate school soon and that it’s beneficial for my future.

And my ultimate dream is to work with women, children, animals, the elderly, and people who are so poor, they don’t even own their own bodies.

All will have been abused. In some way.

See, I’ll only want to work with them if they’ve also been toyed with. 

He made me feel like a little spider; the 'rents couldn't possibly imagine how I feel. 

Toyed with, played with, same thing. And, his teeth: perfect, funny enough, I swear. 

This one time, one of the last times, he was so mean to me I panicked—my chest seized, I couldn't catch my breath. 

I mean, he’d hit me so hard I wound up on the floor with my head wedged between the night table and the box spring. I was taller than he was by this point, but it didn’t matter.

He’d taken issue with something I’d said. I forget what I said, it was some passing comment. I’d meant it as a passing comment. I must’ve touched a nerve. 


Madison Homes is a famous photographer. And she was my uncle’s longtime girlfriend. I loved hanging out with the two of them.

When she was around, things felt complete. We did many drugs. Madison Homes would take lots of pictures of us. She didn’t know what the pictures meant. (Some of them now hang in galleries around the world.) An old dead trespassing thought of mine: telling her, ripping up her life.

The 'rents knew I loved hanging out with my uncle and Madison Homes, and they were fine with it. But my uncle came back to our midwestern town sans Madison Homes plenty. The 'rents never knew when he was alone. 

My uncle broke up with Madison Homes three years ago yesterday. Or Madison Homes broke up with my uncle three years ago yesterday. The 'rents never knew it was over, and I didn’t say anything. (This was after the fight about antiques.) 

The ‘rents invited her to the funeral, but Madison Homes didn’t show up.

I miss her—I still have her number, but what would I say? Every word would be the worst word. 

The morning of the funeral, in the shower, I may have briefly believed that my best friend was dead.


It’s two years ago. It’s the outside looking in. It’s that really old laptop of mine. It’s just me by myself working on my application. It's The Galaxy: a good place to concentrate—and actually not gross—got the ethics of an airport hotel. The sheets give you what anyone needs, the soap in the bathroom is certifiable, and everything else is perfectly decent.

I just lunched from the Chinese restaurant across the road. Their bulletproof glass is exceptionally greasy. I ate the takeaway on the bed, and I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him for months. And Christmastime: almost here. He mailed me about half a pound of garbage cocaine to help with the application. My left nostril is still out to lunch.

At the desk, naked from the waist down, I sit steady; outside the door, a cleaning lady’s trolley goes by. A vacuum cleaner erupts a few minutes later. Goddamn—I just misspelled my first name—for the third time—how is that even possible?

We both hate when accidents happen. Me and him. Have that in common.

But, I really hate when the things I like start to ruin me; also, I don’t like when people can speak other languages, because I can’t speak other languages. 

And then, in the shower, when the conditioner gets in my mouth?

Or when you know for a fact that the worst thing that’ll ever happen to you just did?

You-know-who says I’m too good for the floor. 

Blond hair, brown eyes, and a raspberry birthmark on his right eyelid.

I am petrified of dementia—like, for instance, what’s my name?

And? So? I don't mind accidents? Maybe? Sometimes?

See, these are the things I’m trying to write about, what I’d like to incorporate into my personal statement, etcetera, etcetera. 

Mistakes and accidents are the catalysts for intellectual and personal growth. For instance, when conditioner gets in your mouth, or when you forget your own name, or resent bilingual individuals… 

I should take a break. I remove myself from the desk. 

First, I use cold water. Then, I use hot water. And then, I use cold water again.

Back at the desk now. Visiting my application. Swallow a Valium. Don’t want a washing machine upstairs. Breathe at my hands. Last wisdom tooth approaches. So what. The end.

And so I call him up because I miss him, and I’m feeling somewhat verbal, and he answers because he’s not busy.

“I’m having trouble with my personal statement,” I say. 

“That’s funny, because I’m having trouble with this personal erection,” he says.

He can be so full-blown nasty. I am on the verge of hissy fit. I could just eat my phone. “I’m being serious,” I tell him, “I need your help, and step on it.”

He groans for what feels like a whole summer, but I know that a big part of him wants to answer me. 

“Well, when it comes to strangers, it’s always a good idea to lay your values out instantly,” he says. His voice slides around in my head. He says, “You’re really special, and you’ve got a terrific outlook on situations.”

And then something in my throat gets in the way of the next thought. But it’s not the trash coke or the extra resilient General Tso's. It’s something else, and it’s there entirely. 

The vacuum fades, shuts off. The cleaning lady starts talking to someone down the hall. On the phone, these moments are silence before I break it. 

“Where are you?”

“Turn around.”


And the pamphlet from the hotline fellas says, Come on, man! The pamphlet says, So much to live for! The pamphlet says, What about just sleeping? The pamphlet mentions that suicide changes those who love the person. A permanent solution to a temporary problem—what the pamphlet calls it.


I could never throw an ashtray at a shrink fuck.

I’m not him. 

I miss the way he made me alive. I miss him speeding.

He drove like a drug dealer. 

With the top down, we zoomed by the river that baptized Jesus, and I wasn’t wearing my seatbelt because he wouldn't allow it, because he thought seatbelts were for wimpy pussies only, and that was all right by me, and what was the alternative? Being alone? Why would I not have become a dirty little unclefucker? 

Anyone else would’ve turned into what I became. 

But now I’m talking about the whole entire universe—I can see that. I’m talking about how, suddenly and sometimes, I’m totally fine with these hardass Roman times.


  

Volume 15.2  ✧  Summer 25

Myles Zavelo

Suddenly Sometimes These Hardass Roman Times (And/Or: Graduate School…)

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