Fox Street

I saw two foxes cross the street. I was drunk so the streetlight was red and the foxes were perfect foxes and the street itself was like a pillow. I said, "Hey, there's some foxes," and Josh said, "Huh, they are foxes." Josh wasn't drunk.

We were at a party where this guy kept singing a Christmas carol. It's July. Something about the joys of Mary. Each joy was numbered. The first joy Casey had was the joy of beer. A girl gave me some cigarettes. The second joy. The girl was nice, but of course she's moving to Nashville like tomorrow or something. She writes poetry but doesn't read it. I said, "I don't read poetry either," but I really do. I have a bookshelf full of poetry. Sometimes I lie to people I'll never see again.

I got an acceptance recently that made me almost sick with happiness. I'll tell you about in a week. It's the story of a man living on the water.

I'm writing the script for a comic book. Shhh. I haven't done this before. It's like the audiobook version of porn right now. No pictures yet. You may never hear about this again. It could be so awful. Go about your lives! Eat a box of toaster pastries and forget I ever brought it up.

It's only a matter of time before I'm tangentially related to everyone from my hometown.