Bouvre

Maybe he didn't think I was legal. I've always looked young for my age.

Facebook, because I was a naive 18 year old who thought "hanging" with another cute looking guy meant just that. So yeah, I was coerced, but it's still my story, and he was still bad at it.

Nah.

Nah, I find it hilarious now

It was a very awkward encounter, too. He drove me over a hundred miles away from home, attempted pathetically to do his thing, and drove me home. I ghosted him.

Probably still drinking, reading, and writing.

Break room of a hair salon.

I sort of hung out, submitted fiction to magazines/edited the end of a long-neglected short story, and watched Okja with the spouse when they were off work.

Categorically untrue if you're Rogue.

The boi just woke up in that pic, give him time.

They live between 12 and 14 years so 25ish?

Grab the pussy but the pussy grabs back

Categorically untrue if you're Rogue.

Carson, woodland park zoo's red panda, turned 4 yesterday. My spouse and I went to see and congratulate him.

Baraku360

I liked it.

Norwegian Wood was adapted. Can't comment on its quality though.

That's what I thought it was

https://mobile.nytimes.com/2018/06/24/obituaries/donald-hall-a-poet-laureate-of-the-rural-life-is-dead-at-89.html Donald Hall, a former poet laureate of the United States who found a universe of meaning in the apples, ox carts and ordinary folk of his beloved rural New England, died on Saturday at his home in Wilmot, N.H. He was 89. His death was announced by his literary agent, Wendy Strothman. He had overcome cancer, first diagnosed in 1989, beating the very odds of survival that he had given himself years ago. Mr. Hall was one of the leading poets of his generation, frequently mentioned in the company of Robert Bly, James Wright and Galway Kinnell. In evoking a bucolic New England past and expressing a deep veneration of nature, he used simple and direct language, though often to surreal effect. “Hall has long been placed in the Frostian tradition of the plainspoken rural poet,” Billy Collins, another American poet laureate, wrote in The Washington Post in April 2006, two months before Mr. Hall himself was given the post. Mr. Hall’s poems often evoke not only place but also an almost geologic sense of time. In “Names of Horses,” he writes: For a hundred and fifty years, in the pasture of dead horses, roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs, yellow blossoms flourished above you in autumn, and in winter frost heaved your bones in the ground — old toilers, soil makers.

Don't let the enchilada bang you.

The meager history of short stories/poems I've published.

I was worried for a second You were DJ Khaled Thanks for not being DJ Khaled

Perfect cycling weather. And it's not too humid here. I also have a porch with a hammock.