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Want to toss me some support and also see that picture of 7 year old TM in an angel costume? Yeah you do. It’s fucking adorable.
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Get access to that pic of 7 year old TM in an angel costume, plus a new TM throwback photo every month. In addition, I’ll mail you a Fuck Work sticker (white text on black vinyl) of your very own (produced by the now defunct but formerly rad
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Want more stickers? More writing? Get everything offered to Banshee patrons, and access to one post a month that’s exclusively for patrons. I'll also send you a vinyl sticker that says "Fuck You, I have enough friends." Your therapist will love it.




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I keep a picture of you, walking toward a greyhound bus. It’s a black and white picture, and you’ve turned to wave at me, your arm raised in farewell. You’re smiling at me in this picture. Back then, I rarely smiled.

We lived on ramen, and vodka, and potlucks to which we didn’t contribute. We spent our money on tattoos. You loved my cat and my little brother. I loved your art. You made a picture of the sound of my chains and said that I was a writer because I write, although I felt it wasn't enough.

There were roaches in our apartment and you kept all of the silverware and our toothbrushes in the refrigerator. I'd squeeze my eyes shut and turn on the lights, give them a moment to scatter before looking, and pretend that they weren't there. My pretense annoyed you. I hung a heavy bag from the center of the living room and spent my free time hitting it. You painted and played Tom Waits at top volume.

When the bar across the alley, three floors down closed at night, there would be fights in the parking lot, and sometimes gunshots. Men shouting and threatening one another. We wore earplugs and stayed below the windows.

You said that you’d spoken with the crows outside the window, and that they’d told you what to paint. I thought you meant that metaphorically, but you were serious. I envied you, because no matter how often I try to strike up a conversation, the crows never talk to me.

I don’t know exactly when you stopped smiling, or exactly when I started. I do know that it happened many years before we said goodbye. But I choose to remember you as you were in that picture, when we believed that we’d see one another again, and when that was the best story of all.


When I get $50/month in support, I'll write a novel. Until then, it's essays and memoirs, posted regularly at .
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When I get $50/month in patronage, I'll start writing my novel. It'll be rad. You'll want to read it.
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