thePartialist

I have a girlfriend, Kate, who loves me and does amazingly kind things for me every day. I answer the ringing phone, “Hello,” and then wake up, feeling sickish. This isn't about bragging, so I don't need to bore you with all of the ways she's gentle and gracious to me. I will however mention that she helps me tie my shoes. I tell whoever is on the phone that, “Yeah I wake up really woozy and nauseous like this some mornings. Hung over, or maybe even still drunk from the night before.” I say, “Kate doesn't usually leave it so cold in here.” I have a new apartment with a very, very old heater. A very old

Don't get me wrong. My job isn't difficult by any means. It's actually too easy, most times. It's the tedium that grinds me down. The waiting, I mean. Like Tom Petty said, the waiting is the hardest part. By the way, I saw Tom Petty live in 2002, and he's going to die of old age. I promise. Back to the waiting. It's the hardest part, and the most necessary. You have to let the mark lead. You have to pretend to listen. Pretend to take notes and read cues. You have to pause thoughtfully when they've finished talking, and imagine yourself as you want them to see you. Surrounded by books and candles and tiny, delicate artifacts. Eyes closed and

I'm walking out back to have a smoke and take out the trash, and I see a girl approaching. I look up slowly. My eyes reach her face and I can see that she's looking at my deformed left hand. Her eyes finally reach my face, and she knows I caught her staring. 'Don't feel bad sweetie,' I think to myself, 'I looked at your tits before I looked at your face. So we're even.

Stanhope answered the phone singing some ridiculous song about lemondrops or lemon trees or lemondrop trees. I don't remember which. "And they have you under observation! You need to come up with an act, my friend." Douglas, poor Dougie, he's amazing with advice. Too good for his own good. The call ended quick when I realized that Shannon was crying big, heaving sobs and her nose was drooling snot all over her blue paper gown. Ever since I got her talking, I've felt like Shannon was mostly my responsibility. Even if she weren't, I don't know that I'd really entrust her care to the evening staff at Parkside Psychiatric Hospital. Her conditi

bourbon in the midwest The day before I left California, a girl who thought she loved me tried her best to kill herself. The night before that, she split my smile open with her fists for breaking her heart. It's a week later now. I lay on the snow white sheets of the hotel bed with a belly full of Fighting Cock 103 Bourbon, and wonder: Now that God is gone, who do I have to thank for the little failures that left a dear, sweet girl breathing? The forces or factors responsible have my thanks. If you could see me, I'm smiling, and my lips are bleeding again.

any given sunday "I want us to quit." She's crying pretty steady now. Not even ugly when she cries. Not most times. This isn't real crying. "I want to matter more to you than that shit. I want you to matter more to me than it, too." The great big, sleep-starved tears are doing nothing for her makeup but making it better. We should probably shoot another set. You're tired, baby. Me too. Get some sleep. "Aren't you coming to bed?" I was going to, but if you want us to quit, I have the whole bag to do by morning. "Make me a bump?" Sure, baby. How big? "I'll do whatever you're gonna do."