Get ready for four hours of uncertainty.

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Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

If you want to take a seat in the middle chair, I’ll be right there once I sweep up the extra inch and a half I cut off my last client for fun. Do you want anything to drink? Water, Diet Coke, Vodka? For some reason, we have Vodka in this hair salon, which makes no sense on paper but in practice, when I ultimately fuck up your hair, it will totally check out on why we have Vodka.

Do you have any photos of what you want to get done? It won’t necessarily matter, but I’d like a vague image of what we’re aiming to do with your hair so I can do the complete opposite. You said blonde and only two inches off, since you like your long hair, so I’m thinking we do a full bleach blonde pixie cut. Here, look at this photo of someone on Instagram whose hair doesn’t look like the photo you showed me at all. One side of her head is shaved and the other side is completely white, what do you think of that? No? …

Dun dun da daaaaa, dun da da daaaaa! Can you hear the wedding bells?

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I am proud to say after many months of getting to know each other, the space heater under my desk has finally agreed to marry me. Eep! Please read the following Save the Date invitation for details on our wedding.

Most of the office already knows our love story but we’d like to reiterate for those who don’t. Space heater and I met the first day I started working here. I didn’t see them until a month after I’d worked here, considering it was summer and I didn’t have much use for them. Seasons changed and I realized I truly could not survive without their warmth. …

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Pride month has gone on far too long. There, I said it. Someone must put their foot down and tell it like it is and that person is me: a straight.

Already, it is the twentieth and I am exhausted. Like, HellOOOooo? Where are our eleven months? There’s just been so many days this month where I’ve had to listen to marginalized people whine about how objectively homophobic I am. I’m not, okay? …

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My retainer tastes like dog. It’s the closest I’ve come to comfort in a while. The familial touch of someone you love is a relic in my head. A memory in amber. I put a pillow in between two bodies when they exist in one place, so far gone from a point of return that I don’t know which way is out. I’m not sure the last time I stayed when someone touched me.

The first time I kissed for emotion and not technique.

I’ve been fumbling so long through a maze of roses all that’s left are thorns. The trail leading to me covered in blood. I bandage and re-bandage my hands but they cut open every time. They crack when I steal sheets. They cry when I leave at dawn, my body flooded in dark. I thought the sun was supposed to come out eventually but seasons past and you stayed for winter. …

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Minimizing my existence was the goal of 24. It accumulated in a waste bucket, scraps from skin constantly shed. I couldn’t reduce the waste I created in space or consumption. I tried. Nothing worked.

I go through bandaids like Earth goes through days. Flippantly, if that. My friend Devin told me he hates wearing bandaids because he looks like a child. I hold memories of my youth hostage, refusing to let go.

Heaps of wrappers spill over the gold trash can my sister bought. A royal staple to a broken palace. I pick pieces up if they’re lucky. Mostly I leave them on the ground, constantly afraid I’ll bring home someone who thinks I’m worth being someone’s home for the night. They’ll wake up from the middle of sleep to find strips of flesh colored tape stuck to the floor. I throw bandaids from the tub when I’m too lazy to get out and dump them. …

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The influx of suburban Chads is indefinite. Naperville produces their best and brightest for four-days of Lollapalooza, and this year won’t fail to deliver. Jam packing the blue line with water bottles full of vodka, teenagers make their way to Grant Park hoping to catch whatever band they can make their friends feel bad for not knowing. They’re loud, they’re young, and they’re ready to go in to the weekend with the mindset that they will never die. Here’s what to look for if you happen to be in downtown Chicago these next few days:

The Water Bottle

The water bottle. A trophy they carry like King Arthur’s Sword in the Stone. Naturally, this is filled with anything but water. Vodka. Rum. A weird hybrid of Vodka, Rum, and Gatorade. Whatever disgusting ingredients this horribly concocted martini contains, half of its contents will be chased down from 95th to Howard, with no regard for the rest of the day. Pacing is not a thing for people under age. They drink as if there’s no tomorrow. …


You’re not sure if you remember it correctly, you tell yourself. He said he was sorry and his sorry starts filling in the blanks for you. The last things you remember become the first. The Christmas lights hanging above his room. You think there was a brown robe but it could just be the tuffs of hair on his chest.

I don’t remember a lot of things but I remember what I wore that night. I think about it every time I get naked in front of a boy without letting him touch me. Is this too much? Is this too much? Am I taking off too much to the point you want me? …

Today is Easter and millions have assembled to celebrate the arrival of one Jesus Daddy Christ. Though organized religion has brought a relentless stream of war and pain, it has also brought Jesus Christ to the forefront of conversation, a man who’s only existence seems to be thirst trapping elderly women in to nunnery. For the re-birth of our savior, a list. Of all the definitive reasons Jesus is Daddy.

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1. That Hair

Damn. Have you ever seen hair that luscious? He’s like a sexier Alanis Morisette when she’s walking naked down the street in Thank You. I’d like to twirl those dang curls in my fingers and tell him all my secrets in the early dawn. …

the well is cold,

the well is,


I’m down here

with the frogs

but the frogs,

they don’t want me

the frogs croak,


they are down here

where it’s cold,

where walls ooze,

slime sticks,

despair persists,

and time melts

no chances exist

with the frogs

no escape,

no nothing

I’m grabbing,

and grabbing

But my hands, they

Keep slipping-

My feet can’t find


I feel I’m always


I want to be a fly,

Not a frog.

Feel the sun

Fill my body,

Feel the wind

Fill my flight

Maybe know,

It’s alright

But I’m down here

In the soot

Mud has covered

My eyes

I’m grabbing,

I’m grabbing

The frogs

They eat flies

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I’ve known my entire life what I wanted to do when I grew up. To make people laugh. To let joy and happiness trail me everywhere I went. I’d watch early 90s’ Chris Farley yell about a van down by the river and Wedding Singer era Adam Sandler make indiscernible noises on SNL thinking the entire time “yeah. This feeling in my gut is what it feels like to be alive.” I had found “it.” That thing my parents said people search for their whole life. Something to wake people up in the morning. Something to leave people satisfied at night. A goal. A dream. To be the best comedian who ever lived. I didn’t know the business of going about it, but I learned two lessons early. The first was how hard it would be to achieve this. …


Meggie Gates

I’m trying my best, here.

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