She was America’s wet dream, white, blonde, and beautiful. Of course, these physical characteristics were used against her, primarily by those who had not achieved a fraction of what she had earned. Her accomplishments were never, according to these people, the fruits of her natural intellect and hard labor. Rather, they were the inevitable conclusion derived from the size of her breasts/ass/stomach, as well as a particularly nasty rumor that had been circulating since sophomore year concerning an alleged handjob she had given to Mr. Howley—the English teacher who organized these events—behind the bleachers in the old gymnasium.

He broke into a piece of the earth with his shovel. The burial, he had decided, would take place in front of the farm. The surrounding soil was fertile enough, so the dig wouldn’t be too taxing, physically speaking. Halfway through, the father appeared to lose control of his basic motor skills. He dropped the shovel and immediately fell to his knees and began to dry-heave. The heaving gave way to a sudden and hostile appearance of vomit that expelled out of his mouth with a force that could only be described as audacious.

The day I almost died…

The year was 2008 or something like that. We decided we wanted to be taken more seriously as performers. Our solution to this was to emulate the icon that was the ‘80s business master. We would wear suits every day and do lots of cocaine.

on the corner
of Casino Center and Colorado with the studded thongs and the leashes around their slim necks and those high- waisted hot-pants hiked up to that sinched waist terrified by the possibility of beauty, while forgetting what
it might
be
...slowly
losing
life

I built a city in the desert.
Lithium and plastic and dry cellulose.
Autonomous flying cars.
Drone-delivered impossible everything,
Nourishing our body-positive bodies.
Streaming, bingeable Obama-produced documentaries
In every remote classroom.

There was even a monorail.

The next part I'm not really sure of. I don't know if she was trying to drug me...or if one of the local neck beards was trying to drug her.

Amy: I’m sorry if I sent mixed signals, but I’m not attracted to you. You’re wasting your time and your feelings.

Peter: Feeling things isn’t a waste. Why must you continually divert all power to shields?

Amy: I’ve been hurt, so I protect myself. Isn’t that my right? The psychic in New York told me that I’ve probably been abused in several past lives, not just in this one…

Peter: I thought the psychic in Bucharest told you that?

In 1988 my friends and I killed a kid.

He was just a boy really. We had help it wasn’t just me and my pals. there were adults involved, lots of them. I mean we were young we were just thirteen and really couldn’t comprehend the ramification of our actions, the adults knew what they were doing. I’m painting it to sound way more sinister than it was, and in today’s society, wouldn’t trend on Twitter but maybe in the ’80s, it was probably considered quite ominous.

The most acid I've ever taken by accident was at a Saturday night cast party.

Travis opened up and wasn’t taken seriously. In 2021, an era where mental health is more discussed and normalized than ever before, Travis is an extreme and somber expression of what can happen to people who need help but never receive it.