I have never been more confounded by a blank screen than I am right now, at this moment.

I’m looking at it, it’s looking at me, mocking me with its whiteness, with its purgatorial whiteness, its virginal whiteness, its ghostly whiteness, its endless whiteness. 

I want to slam my laptop shut, but…

I used to steal peaches right off the tree, a Kool-Aid face kid who hopped a chicken wire fence, ran to the trees fast as I could, plucked the fuzzy fruit with a twist and a swoosh of leaves. 

I don’t remember eating them, don’t remember if they were sweet as sunshine, or bitter as a reluctant spring. …

The bar’s centerpiece was a lucite cypress tree, backlit by pink and white fluorescent lights, each level of carved branch and foliage serving as a shelf for bottles of high end liquor, glowing like gemstones on laudatory pedestals.

He wore a fitted sport coat over a pristine white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, staring into a glass of Old Fashioned, poking with a tiny red straw at a slice of…

He was hung, no need to mince words, he was hung like a horse, made Milton Berle look like a Chinese stereotype--

(Oh, now for Pete’s sake, that’s out of line, Joey.)

(Oh God, unclench, I’m dating a Chinese man, I can say whatever I want.) …