On the Lamb
It looks so dramatic.
I lined it all up like I wanted to really enjoy it.
A hot bath.
Two fresh Miller Lites.
A pipe stuffed with weed.
A book for my short attention span.
The House of Warren
When Ali, Casey, and I were in college down in central Illinois, we lived in this great place just a block off campus. It was situated at the top of a hill overlooking the town smack dab in the middle of Greek Row, snuggled between the Beta and SAE houses—a modest, three-bedroom house with a front porch and back patio, and yard that made it ideal for barbecues and other themed or not themed parties.
We’re All Going to Die on the Toilet
So many substances.
The uppers
The downers
The in-betweeners.
An Elvis Cocktail of everyday kitchen cabinet junk.
Familial Reflection on Suicide
I think my dad had a hard time with retirement. In the five months since stepping away he’d grown increasingly interested in me. I couldn’t tell if it was out of boredom or guilt for not having been more involved in my life up to that point. And though I never felt abandoned by him, it was nice—albeit strange—to get to spend some time with him.
Doom & Poon
She said, “You bring the poon, we’ll bring the doom.”
She was always down for trouble.
Always in some kind of it.
The Adorable Little Antichrist
Her fury, her hurt, her fear and shame was pure focus. She dug deeper into her legs. The blood began to run down her thighs, soaking through her dress and forming a small puddle in the pew.
The Fault in Our Party Supplies
I’m a piñata. Papier-mâché and crepe paper. My inner turmoil bred of my fate occupies the same space as fun-sized candy. Twizzlers, Nerds, Airheads, nougat and chocolate that melts and cools with the humidity in the back of a party store.
A Beer, a Shot, a Mayoral Hopeful
The men rushed toward the open door. “Not so fast, fuck-os,” she said. Annie was a small woman, no more than five-foot-three with most of her weight in her disproportionate breasts, of which she often complained gave her backaches.
Hell in a Handbasket
Before she was Jane Hadley, the rock ’n’ roll singer/songwriter—the Goddess of Rock, bigger than Taylor, Adele, and Beyoncé combined, she was Jane Hadley, the folk ’n’ roll singer/songwriter who never sold more than a thousand albums and a few hundred t-shirts.
The Ultimate Decision
He was tired of carrying her weight. Her financial choices and responsibilities. Her alcoholism. And he knew she was tired of his drug abuse and laziness and porn addiction. And Train played. And the guy kept talking. “Thing is, man… if it weren’t for divorce, I’d have student loans.”
The Adventures of Aborted Andy | Episode I: Meeting Your Maker
Andy was good at his job. And for a nine-month-old baby, he was really good at it.
Hazy, I Pee, Eh?
Life comes clearer on a hot, hazy summer day.
Sunburnt shoulders hunched from carrying the weight of the world
And the weight of your child and his laughter.
Conversations with Whores
Old men with cheap cigars talking to half naked women, who can’t waste too much time with one guy because it’s all about turnover. Beyoncé was playing on the jukebox and it sounded out of place. Hip-Hop didn’t belong there. It was too cool for what was really going on.
Hagatha the Dog Witch
Hagatha, upon arriving in Chicago, had developed an allergy to cats. She tried Zyrtec, Claritin and Allegra, and all the potions and spells in her Witch Craft: Curses & Remedies book. Nothing helped. Her eyes watered, which made her face melt a little.
Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of July 5, 2026
It’s hard not to think that Swifties are secretly rooting for a divorce within seven years. Think of how incredibly mediocre that album will be.
Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of June 28, 2026
Earn the nap; don’t just take it.
Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of June 21, 2026
Nothing will humble a confident runner like multiple steep hills.
Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of June 14, 2026
It’s not about getting over things; it’s about getting through them.
Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of May 24, 2026
The legacy of Michael Jackson is complicated. But his music simplifies it.
On Turning 47 | Giving Myself Permission to be Myself
I give myself permission to be a living, breathing, learning, failing, succeeding, complicated human being. For if I don’t, there’s no point in celebrating a birthday.
The first chapter of an in-progress novel.
“The voice began on a Tuesday morning while Monte Walsh was standing in his kitchen, holding an unopened package of bacon over the garbage can.”