Mushroom god told me that there’s really only two things: caring, and not caring.

I know this sounds fake, but, before I transitioned, I sometimes felt phantom limb sensations for breasts that I didn’t have.

The only thing that I know for certain is if “Nevada,” by Imogen Binnie, were to continue past its final page, James would do heroin.

I was trying to answer every question that anyone could possibly think of. I was aping Natalie Wynn, in different chairs, up till 8am, speaking truth to imaginary versions of myself who I know won’t listen.