This issue inaugurated the journey, featuring fiction by Colin Murphy, Greg Ellis, and Germania Solorzano. To order, send $3 to:
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It's the kind of a week where the mayor gets caught in the hotel room with his dick in a big sackof union money. He probably even drove there drunk as a butcher.
The cat just wasn't doing what was expected of it, so on Thursday I took it back. On the way I kept putting the box down and fiddling with the things in my pockets, hoping it might nose its way out while I had myself turned around. But that was yet another hint it never got, and that was why it had to go.
Little else has changed since the last big inventory: the bits from the center of the room have tended toward corners and under radiators and into clefts between toes and feet and thence between the sheets, which is all, in a general sense, to be expected. I have nearly eliminated "should" from my vocabulary, finding it replaceable in most instances with "can" or "could" or even "would," which I feel gives my speech a more plaintive tone, replacing guilt-powered compulsion with a related but toothless breed of intent. Had I been a salesman, you should've seen my numbers.
As for our friend: she says she's coming for a visit but you know she'd sooner be frozen fucking solid.