tiny purple microdots…

On My Sixteenth Birthday

When my estranged father offers to drop acid with me, I start to believe his story.

“I was driving my bus over the I-195 bridge.”

He draws an arc in the air.

“The bus was full of passengers when the acid kicked in.”

He drops his arm, sharp as a T-rule.

“I didn’t think I’d make it across the bridge. The world shifted: the bay now behind me; the bus lifted into the sky — horizontal planes became vertical.”

He floats his right fist off his left forearm.

“We, the bus, everything, drifting off into space.”

He smiles.

“The first time you do it, it should be with someone you trust. Open your hand.”

“You have a lot of people who aren’t good at writing yet telling you what to change about the way that you’re writing… It’s a lot of mediocrity feeding on itself. So you better be radical, and you better hate everyone. Not that I did personally, but that I had to if I was going to protect the thing in me that I knew I wanted to grow.”

— Ottessa Moshfegh

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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