my careless contagion

Joey, as I recall, actually looked a bit like James Dean. Joey was his name. I know he was Indian (dot, not feather), and I think he lived in Columbus. I had moved in with my girlfriend, Kate, that summer. We got our own place. I remember holding her as she cried because there were dead cockroaches in the cupboards and the fridge smelled like paint (we got it replaced). I said we'd make the place ours. These were little things. The important thing was we were doing it together.  She cheated on me with Joey, a guy she met on IRC, the same place she met me. I took her to the bus stop and picked her up from the bus stop, her mood quite different upon her return. I must have been incredibly stupid to think she was going to just hang out and have dinner with someone. He got her off. She didn't return the favor. That sounds about right for her. I should have kicked her out when she told me what happened, but instead I slept on the floor in the other room, my little bed trample...

Do people even use the word "irk" anymore? I don't know. But I'm irked. What was once a feeling of being bothered by my ex-spouse has turned into a full-blown feeling of being irked . All the time. In fact, I would say it sometimes turns grotesque. But we won't talk about that. Why am I so angry? I think it's a natural thing to dislike the person you divorced, right? Otherwise, why the hell did you divorce them? There are some reasons why that could happen, I realize, but eventually, in order to move on, your feelings have to reconcile with the facts. And the fact is she irks me.  I have to work with my ex-wife for the time being. I mean, I could probably get a job waiting tables, but it wouldn't pay me as much as this one (also, I'm pretty sure I don't care how you like your steak, sir), most likely, and the end goal is to save money and move away from here. I don't like where I live, and it seems like everyone here dies of cancer. Re...

*** Spoiler alert. ***  Netflix's series You is a journey into the mind of a self-proclaimed "good guy," as in the last good guy in New York, who happens to be a serial killer. He's not just a serial killer, though; he's a guy who has convinced himself he's killing to protect those he loves. He never wants to kill. But he has to. Because he's really just a good guy who is forced into some bad situations, right?  It's hard not to see this as another brick in the wall of the narrative that there are no good guys, a theme that has been running in popular media for a few years now, highlighted most recently by the MeToo and TimesUp movements, movements I wholeheartedly agree are past due. Without getting into the irony that MeToo's great push came out of heathen Hollywood, a town long given over to vices such as giving sex for work (prostitution), let's take a look at how You fits into things.   Let me say first that I agree with the MeTo...

I remember kneeling by your chair as you broke down and told me what you'd done. It was almost 20 years ago, but I remember you braiding your curly hair in an anxiety-ridden state like it was yesterday. You weren't like this when I dropped you off at the bus station a few days before. Something happened in Cleveland that you didn't want to talk about. I sat and listened. You cheated on me with a boy you met on internet relay chat. His name was Joey. I knew him; he was Indian, very good looking in your estimation, I'm sure. His sister cooked you all dinner. There were other details. And then I wished I didn't know them. And then I wished you hadn't done it.  My strongest reaction as a young male with no other clear coping mechanism was to make love to you. I wanted you back. I wanted to claim you as mine again. I wanted you to know I loved you and forgave you. You clearly felt bad about what you'd done. I thought you'd take my advances and run with ...

When did I realize I experience the world differently than other people? I've tried to pinpoint when it all began. It must have started in my family unit at an early age, as I don't recall a particular moment of realization. Once my brain stopped trying to find that blip of time, it turned to the possible reasons why I felt so odd. The disconnect I felt from other people and their experiences was a clue that something wasn't right. Although I was a healthy weight and size when I was born, my health began to suffer soon after. I got pneumonia when I was a baby. I didn't grow or thrive like my brothers. In short, I was the runt of the litter.  As time went on, my mother became increasingly frantic about finding solutions for my physical state. It the age of 2.5, I was only 20 pounds. I had terrible digestive problems and couldn't seem to get well. After going to a doctor, it was revealed I had chronic impacted bowels. The doctor, by hand, disimpacted me. This...