I spent the weekend in Chicago gallivanting all over town with my best friend in the world, and on the plane ride home, instead of buying a dumb magazine that I'd inevitably read through the course of the flight and then toss like a used tissue, I bought Junot Diaz's latest book, a collection of short stories, This Is How You Lose Her. Check out the write up on The New York Times. 

While reading the stories, which are absolutely brilliant (I'm a little biased - Junot Diaz is my favorite contemporary writer), I got a surge of inspiration, and wrote this down on my phone. 

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I go to Footsies for a drink because it's the only place I can really go without encountering some cocky douchebag who thinks he has a big enough dick that makes it okay for him to hit on me all night. I order two shots of Cazadores. Down one, sip the other. Ruminate over my stupid pointless night. I shouldn't have fucked him, I tell myself. He'd want me more if I hadn't fucked him. 

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. He repeats this over and over. Like a dusty record that's caught in a groove. It reminds me of something, like the way Taylor used to say he was about to cum even though he didn't have to because I could always feel it swell, feel him in me. 

After, at the bar, I repeat the words to myself, and it makes me sad.