Most of them are ~3,000 word epub files, but several of them get bound together in a physical volume. Chuck also writes whole-ass mainstream horror too, those can be found at bookstores.

And if you’ve never heard of Chuck Tingle, I am not joking.

Might even be underselling it a bit.

Yeah, you’re taking pictures of Chuck Tingle’s yard, leave the man alone, he works hard for us. Where else are you gonna find well-crafted erotica about sexy lawyer dinosaurs and bigfoots who are both billionaires and bomb defusal technicians trained in the art of love?

I’ve seen them thrice, and Friday Pilots Club always puts on a good show!

Let’s add Bodies to this list. Eight episodes, one hour each. The same identical corpse turns up in 1890, 1941, 2023, and 2053. Time travel shenanigans ensue. Smart writing, tight cast, nothing is wasted.

Know you are loved.

And I can effortlessly visualize and move through places I’ve been to enough to learn the layouts as well. I’ve stood in the spot, where, back in high school, I turned down a girl who asked me out. I stood there, on a quiet and cold night, on the grass with no one around, and apologized to her, twenty-three years too late. Apparently being turned down was enough to put herself in a tailspin that even at the twenty-year reunion, she hasn’t pulled herself out of. Maybe I’m not to blame? But I still stood in that spot and said sorry.

It’s easy to remember where all the spots are.

No, I don’t have kids. A friend of mine cleans there and asked me if I wanted to see the place after a couple decades away. Dead of summer. No one around, just wandered for a few minutes. Lonely, but nothing moved an inch.

I’m trans, asexual, and taking this virginity to my grave. My bloodline stops with me.

My entire memory operates spatially. I have accurate floor plans of every place I’ve been to at least more than once. I can navigate any number of places. Even still have the layout and significant memories of my old middle school. (Interestingly enough, when I went back there, the whole building felt about 30% smaller in every dimension—hallways narrower and shorter, ceilings lower. Turns out, this is because I’m 30% larger than I was when I was twelve.)

God fucking dammit.

Congressman Al Green got kicked out cause he held a sign that said “black people aren’t apes.”

The rest of the event can be extrapolated from that.

Wait, really? I need something to fortify my homosexuality. Wanna make sure I’m not catching feelings for men.

I’m gonna go request Tuesday off right now, fuck this shit.

I’m not sure this is accurate.

Fashion is using the tools you find (ie clothing, accessories, shoes) to make a statement or an aesthetic which suits you and perhaps impresses others (if you care to), being resourceful with your findings to create art on your own body with cloth.

Despite my aesthetic not being seen in the greater public, mine is still considered fashion. I dress like an android, with sharp angles and unusual, attention-grabbing cuts, and most folks out there are on the same jeans-and-hoodie look from fifteen years ago (which isn’t bad, it’s an old standby for a reason).

Fashion is however you present yourself, provided it was done with mindfulness and attention.

,” said Esquie.

STDs can be treated by being honest with a doctor. However, that doctor may test you for red-green colorblindness by using a series of flags.

I think about Charlie Kirk like how I think about Rush Limbaugh. Not often, but with a smile on my face.

w8, that’s h8 b8, I was too l8 on the wrong d8

that’s my f8.

I remember watching a CRT television belted to a five-foot tall roller stand, and we had suspended all classes that day, even though we were at school. We had just sat there, crying and watching the news, as both towers were smoking, then one had collapsed and myself and other kids had screamed, wailed, and one vomited there on the carpet. Occasionally someone would get pulled away to take a phone call, and they didn’t come back the same. They changed. We all changed.

I still remember Kevin Cosgrove’s last phone call.

Newberg, Oregon, September 11th ‘01.

‘85 here, I’m so tired.

With the unlubed, thorny, gritty, legendary dildo of consequences!