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cass0h's review against another edition
5.0
i felt every single emotion possible while reading this ,,, new queer lit essential for sure
p4rtyg0th's review against another edition
5.0
i’m not surprised that xiu xiu’s jamie stewart is an absolutely fantastic writer, but because of that i’m now left sitting in a melancholic daze with a stomach ache
schopenhauers_poodle's review
adventurous
challenging
dark
emotional
funny
hopeful
mysterious
reflective
sad
fast-paced
3.5
savattalla's review
4.0
had no clue who the author was when I picked this up, it just had a pretty cover & i love to hear about weird sexual encounters
ameliasourheart's review
dark
emotional
funny
medium-paced
5.0
To say this book changed my life would be an under and overstatement in almost equal measure. Mostly under. Raw, disgusting, beautiful, funny, so many combinations of words and pictures, images, painted in a flurry of delicious cacophony. It is a joy to read as much as language itself and the people who know how to use it is an absolute joy.
p4rtyg0th's review
5.0
i’m not surprised that xiu xiu’s jamie stewart is an absolutely fantastic writer, but because of that i’m now left sitting in a melancholic daze with a stomach ache
gaybf's review
5.0
not a dull moment.... if you are related to me DONT read this!!!!!! fav quotes
- The next time I saw him was in the hospital only a couple weeks later. He looked like a translucent apple core. I started to cry, and he patted my wrist weakly while ghost wind came out of his mouth. His eyes were dark buttons. I was so relieved and sad when the nurse told me I had to leave. In the middle of the night, I woke up and could feel he was dead.
- (Pastor Gucci) A few years later, I was a volunteer for the Prisoners Literature Project. Whenever there was a request for books from people who were more likely white supremacists, asking for Nordic or Celtic mythology, Mein Kampf, and blah blah blah, we would send them The Autobiography of Malcolm X or bell hooks as a joke. Whenever we got a letter from Lompoc, I daydreamed about what books I could have sent to Pastor Dick.
- It's easy for me to accept and gloss over the insanity of people I do not love and to compartmentalize my place in and my role or lack of a role in that insanity. Maybe after having dealt with so much crazy, I'm able to be logical about illogic.
- Hand-wringingly, I told my friend about what had happened and what I'd done, and she said she was tired of listening to me overthink my "innate shittiness." All seven volumes of the Encyclopedia of Gremlins, Imps, and Trolls slapped hard across my throat and chin....
- The place did not disappoint, and she found an incredibly thick and wide black leather strap fixed to a handle. It was about three feet long and real heavy. In the car on the drive back, she gave it a little hug like it was a fuzzy kitten.
- I knew that she had stole it and that I didn't drunkenly misplace it because there was a note in the shopping bag it came in. It said, 'Thanks for the wallet. Now forget all about my luving.' I had this note on my bulletin board for about a year because it *was* hilarious, but then I got mad about the wallet one day and threw the note down a storm drain.
- When I was done, he was in bed on the side with no blood, asleep. I got under the sheet and he started to snore. The sound was like a construction worker beating an elephant seal. I looked at his closed eyes, picked up the receiver of the hotel phone, and smashed him in the face with it as hard as I could again and again until he left. He never said 'Stop' or asked 'What are you doing?'
- A few weeks later, lying face-to-face on our sides and steadily balling, my cock inside of her, she looked me dead in the eye and started to sing a Bright Eyes song. I stopped moving, completely unsure of what had happened to reality. There's something laudable about being so vulnerable, and there's also something outrageously repulsive about it. I liked her, though, and wanted to keep things going, so I did everything I could to try not to make her feel embarrassed. But also--NO FUCKING WAY.
- She spit malt liquor into my face. This turned me on, and I rose naked and half-hard from the donut sea and asked her for a hug. She pointedly did not look at my lame dick and said, "You are a fucking mutt," pouring the rest of her forty into the bath. She left and came back and sat on the edge of the tub with a book, and we sat together in profane contemplation.
- This is embarrassing, and I would never ever publicly admit to feeling nostalgic for anything else, but--big sigh--I miss everything about the "old days" of idiotic idiocy and every pandemonic effort divined to bring to reality our reprobate and necessary/unnecessary conjurings. We still get out to nature when there's time or do a little sightseeing or whatever, and white that's really nice. . . it's nice.
- When he did it, I wasn't surprised. I was relieved to not have to wonder when it would happen anymore and relieved that he was free from his suffering and that I was free from his suffering.
- He looked totally normal. Not even asleep--just normal, with his eyes closed. I put my hand on his chest, expecting to feel something, but it was like touching a cardboard box. There was NOTHING there. He was gone from that body and far, far, far away. In some ways, it was terrifying, and in some ways, I was glad to know he made it out.
- The next day, Arturo and I completed the delectable and lively deed. Afterward, he said he had another blow-job date but wanted to go to the party later. I gave him the address and dropped him off with a gold-star thumbs-up for slut's fealty and slut's focus.