see Dick ghost

ghost, Dick, ghost

hear shit cry

cry, shit, cry

time goes on

die, shit, die


  1. Send text
  2. Regret text
  3. Send text expressing regret
  4. Regret regret text
  5. Send text to apologize for texting too much
  6. Regret owning phone
  7. Send text to make sure he’s getting the messages
  8. Send another text apologizing for texting too much
  9. Regret meeting him
  10. Send angry “answer this or else” ultimatum text
  11. Send apology for ultimatum text
  12. Regret being alive at all




When I first auditioned, the movie was called Phantom Phallus, but last I heard it’s getting released as Private Peril. I play the hero, an attractive young lawyer named Greg. The story begins when my character visits his younger brother, Tom.

Tom and his girlfriend are for some unspecified reason staying at a cabin in the woods. (I think the idea is the cabin belonged to our parents?) The three of us, establishing our characters, then Tom and his girlfriend go to bed.

That night my character’s on the couch “preparing for a case”—Props gave me some manila folders to flip through—when I hear Tom screaming from one of the bedrooms.

(I tried to improv a joke here: my surprise that Tom could make a girl scream, etc. But the director said it killed the tension.)

So my character investigates the scream somberly, without comment. When I find Tom, he’s collapsed on the floor clutching his blood-soaked crotch. His topless girlfriend sits next to him, crying.

I’m all, “What the fuck happened, did you fucking bite it off?”

She explains via flashback how she and Tom had been fucking like normal when Tom suddenly began gushing blood, as if his dick had been torn off by a monster.

An ambulance comes for Tom, and then we cut to my character in research mode at what I guess is supposed to the law firm. (We’d filmed it in the manager’s office of a Del Taco, so it was hard for me to think of it as anything but.)

Through online news articles etc., my character finds two recent deaths that sound similar to Tom’s. (We get flashbacks of how they died, too. One of the guys, his dick actually explodes—it’s pretty disgusting.)

So then, my character goes to visit Tom in the hospital, just so happening to arrive right as the next dick-victim is getting rushed to the ER.  I sneak into his room because… I’m not quite sure exactly… and give him this whole monologue about how I have to destroy this monster or more guys will get hurt, and then my brother’s death will mean nothing, etc.

Before the guy can respond, he starts gagging like crazy. Alarms sound and doctors rush in, unable to figure out what’s wrong…

…until we all see the dramatic puffing in his throat and realize: this guy is being choked to death by an invisible dick.

A montage of more research leads me to conclude that this phantom phallus was none other than the Penis Demon. I receive the amulet needed to defeat it from either a sexy librarian or a mysterious, sexy Wiccan—we shot two different versions, because the director couldn’t decide. (The amulet was plastic and tacky in both.)

The Penis Demon’s lair is this creepy apartment where the walls are covered in pictures of dicks connected by pins and strings crazy-person style.

I’m studying all this, trying to figure out the Penis Demon’s next move, when it sneaks up behind me and tries to kill me. Thankfully I have the amulet and can use the binding spell I learned from the librarian/Wiccan!

The amulet glows, and the Penis Demon—after an ectoplasmic orgasm all over the screen—shrivels and sinks into the fiery pits of hell.

(At least they told me this is what it’ll look like, after the visual effects team is done. All I saw was a bright green dildo against a blue backdrop.)

Then my character’s standing there all victorious, and you think the movie’s over, but wham! I’m tackled by a gun-wielding fat dude who was hiding in the apartment bathroom.

I trip him and he slips on a puddle of ectoplasm jizz, dropping his gun, which I pick up and point at him. “I demand an explanation!”

Long story short, it turns out the victims all had one thing in common: enormous cocks. The fat guy (who never gets a name), he explains how he was sick of seeing those massive dicks flaunted in the locker room. So the fat guy summoned the Penis Demon to make them suffer. Then the fat guy, in what is actually the film’s scariest scene, pulls down his pants as he bursts into tears, revealing a less-than-micro-penis, a hideous little nub barely visible in a tangle of pubic hair.

(I dunno how they found a guy to play this part—I guess some people will play anything for money.)

My character stares in stunned silence—I didn’t bother trying to improv a joke, I felt too horrible for the guy—and the police bust in.

Roll credits.

It’s not the most high-brow project, but everyone has to get started somewhere, right

Plus, they’re already planning a sequel—something about a bald man who steals scalps—so this could really be the big break I’ve been looking for.


Aaron pours vodka into an empty water bottle, then holds it up to his windshield to catch the parking lot’s light.

Not enough.

He adds more vodka, checks again.


The rest of the bottle he fills with a lukewarm Sprite that fizzes over, staining his crotch and making his hands sticky. Great, he thinks. So if you get caught, they’ll not only know you were drinking in public, they’ll think you’re a sex pervert too, too. But that’s ridiculous, because if he really does get arrested for intoxication, he can of course explain that the stickiness was only Sprite. And if they don’t believe him, there’s always DNA testing.

Aaron pre-gamed at home, then raced to the theater, trying to arrive so that the shots he took kicked in just as the previews started. Face flushed red, he suddenly worries that he’s going to be late for the movie, have to walk in when everyone else is seated and staring at him. But he checks his phone, and he’s still ten minutes early. (Which is good, because if Aaron didn’t go to the bathroom beforehand, he’d spend the entire movie debating whether or not it’d be worth missing the movie to go to the bathroom and completely ruin his buzz.)

The plastic fifth of vodka, mostly empty, lying on the his seat like a corpse for all to see. Aaron notices it now and, hiding the bottle behind sunscreens in the passenger seat’s back pocket, wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t. He imagines leaving the movie in a great mood only to find a policeman standing at his window waiting for him. “I was passing by and noticed this in your car…”

He tells himself to chill while also telling himself to focus. His mix drink, now dripping condensation, has to be smuggled in. Aaron hides it between his Polo and undershirt, then—once he has gotten out of the car and steadied himself against someone’s minivan—puts on a bulky jacket and zips, securing the drink.

It’s like the opposite of shoplifting, he thinks. Well, he’s stealing from the concession stands by not buying from them, in a way (theft by omission?) . . . although, they don’t sell liquor anyway, so that’s their loss. But he supposes he could have bought their $7.00 Sprite instead of bringing his $0.10 own, if he cared so much.  He doesn’t think he does.

More importantly, did he lock his car?  Pointing back at the parking lot wilderness, he pushes the keyfob and his car honks a faint yes.

The doors look like the heavy kind that Aaron has embarrassed himself trying to open before, straining with his lack of muscles. So Aaron pulls hard on the theater’s entrance. But it’s surprisingly light—he trips backwards in a more embarrassing fuck-up than having difficulty with the door would have been. The kind of thing that’s funny when it happens to someone else, but not to you.

Get it together, he thinks. What if your drink had fallen out?

Aaron approaches the ticket machine. (He drove the extra ten miles to this theater rather than risk any human interactions at the older one by his house; idle chatter was how you got caught.)

When he reaches for his wallet, Aaron notices that his jacket looks wet, like maybe his drink is leaking through his shirt. Could the lid have come off when he fell?

He tries to hurry through the ticket machine’s menus but realizes halfway through that he’s selected the wrong showing of whatever Marvel movie he’s seeing, and he has to start over. All the while pretty sure he’s leaking, but he can’t exactly unzip and check in the middle of the lobby like this.

Finally his fucking ticket prints. He about sprints to the ticket-taker, but stops just short of running when he’s hit by both the need to catch his breath and a heavy sense of shame. How awful he must look tonight, probably reeking of liquor, dripping it, and now out of breath. He shouldn’t have pre-gamed so much, or should have at least timed his drinks better.

“Sir,” Aaron hears the ticket-taker say, and jumps. But when Aaron actually looks, the ticket-taker’s talking to someone else.

Aaron feels the wetness spreading across his chest. Fuck! Not only will he stink, his drink will be gone before he even sits down.  The whole point of sneaking a drink in is to have it during the movie.

He takes a deep breath, repositions the ticket in his hand for optimal ticket-taker access, and gets in line.  Rip, “Theater 5 on your right,” and it’s over.  In a way Aaron’s almost disappointed that the girl who took his ticket didn’t notice he was drunk, although that makes no sense.  Not disappointing maybe, just anti-climactic.

(Unless Aaron seemed so wasted that the ticket-girl was deliberately refusing to acknowledge him… was maybe even reporting Aaron to her manager now.  But no. If they wanted to detain Aaron, they wouldn’t have ripped his ticket.  In this economy, they’re probably happy to have any customers, boozers or otherwise.)

Down the hall moments later, only moments after he calms down, Aaron panics again. There is no Theater 5. This was all a trap—they’re on to him, probably calling the police right now.

Then he realizes that he turned left and is on the wrong side of the building. So it’s probably not a conspiracy.

As an alibi for being on the wrong side of the theater, he ducks inside the nearest bathroom. (Considering there are men’s rooms on both sides, this excuse is flimsy at best—but it also gives him a chance to check his vodka Sprite.)

In a bathroom stall, he carefully unbuckles his belt and releases his shirt.  Miraculously, the drink situation’s not as bad as he feared: lid’s on, just slightly unscrewed.  He must have been confusing the cold weather with wetness, or something. Who knows.

He checks his the time again.  He’s now five minutes late but is so happy about the drink being intact after this debacle that he doesn’t even mind.

Then he remembers the long trek ahead of him, past the ticket girl to the other side of the theater. Ugh. Is his journey never finished?

When he comes out of the bathroom, sighing and fumbling for his ticket stub, he sees that a showing of the horror film he saw last week is just about to start. Perfect! He can hide in here and skip the treacherous journey.

Aaron finds a seat in the corner and  covertly pulls the bottle from under his clothes. He places it in the cup-holder beside him a second before immediately picking it up and taking a long swig. 

Grinning in the dark as the opening credits begin, Aaron thinks: The great thing about going to movies drunk is, you can see them more than once, but still feel surprised. 



Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont,

Enclosed please find my preliminary evaluation:

Patient Charles Matthew Beaumont was checked in at 2:46 pm on Wednesday, March 3. Dr. Vesavada declared that Charlie met the minimum acceptable physical health standards for the program, while noting a BMI that puts Charlie in the 90th percentile range for his age.

Charlie was then transferred to the correctional ward for adjustment advisement. At this time, Charlie became violently agitated for almost ten minutes before settling into the placid, almost lifeless demeanor that marked the rest of his stay. Once this fit concluded, he allowed himself to be wheeled into the testing room without any resistance.

Charlie has a disturbing tendency to gravitate towards obscure and unconventional interpretations. On standard Rorschach tests and free-response questions, he avoided typical replies of pets, super heroes, etc., preferring instead to suggest humans or monsters engaged in dubiously motivated behavior.  One example: rather than seeing a dog playing with a bone, Charlie claimed to see an “octopus-like creature” strangling someone. (This example also illustrates another disturbing tendency of Charlie’s: that is, the inference of violence upon everyday occurrences. When observing the other children play football during mandated recreation, Charlie repeatedly complained that sports were “barbaric.”)

Despite his unconventional thinking, Charlie’s cognitive reasoning skills are noticeably higher than that of his peers. He performed particularly well in the language arts components of our standardized test. This intelligence, if not harnessed and properly funneled, could lead to volatile situations in the future. (It’s likely that you came to us just in time.)

Charlie seemed closest to happy when allowed to read or draw, relatively unsupervised.  The “discovery” of our pre-placed, mildly pornographic test material elicited little reaction from Charlie; he seemed neither guilty nor aroused, a troubling response. Hearing Charlie discuss his future plans was similarly upsetting.  He questioned the value of continuing formalized education, expressed a desire to quit attending church, and remarked that he’d “like to really shake things up, or something”—a foreboding sentiment about which he offered no clarification.

While your son Charlie is by no means the worst case I’ve encountered, his reckless individuality must be stamped out if he is to find happiness and fulfillment in this economy.

Although Charlie’s lack of physical attractiveness and coordination can be easily remedied through the surgeries we have already discussed, the cognitive and behavioral problems will require measures far more severe to treat. (ECT may be necessary—I have attached a disclosure forms for you to sign.)

I would urge you to consider committing Charlie to at least a two-year program of adjustment therapy at one of our facilities. Charlie’s mind needs to be rerouted soon, or his incorrect responses to basic social stimuli will become tragically permanent.

Kindest regards,

Dr. Stuart Winters
St. Bartholemew’s Hospital for Children



  1. We had plans to watch Game of Thrones.
    TRUE             FALSE
  2. You never showed up.
    TRUE             FALSE

SHORT ANSWER (1-2 sentences each)

  1. What, to you, constitutes as setting a plan with someone? Does it come with any rules? Do you always reserve the right to cancel without calling/texting?
  2. When you don’t answer my phone calls, especially when we have plans, why do you get mad at me for texting? (Consider: I wouldn’t text if you answered the phone.)
  3. At what point did you decide that you weren’t coming over? Did you think that you should call or text to notify me of your cancellation at that time? Why or why not? Be specific.
  4. By doing these things, are you trying to “get back at me” for something in a passive-aggressive way? If so, what are you trying to get back at me for? Is it the mere fact that I have expectations of you?
  5. Why is it so hard for you (or feel so constraining to you) to make a simple call or text? Why does such a small obligation feel like such a huge one for you?
  6. Do you understand:
    • how I look forward to seeing you all day?
    • what your words mean to me and
    • how I always take them to heart?
  7. Do you resent me for how much I care about you? Do you realize that you use that care against me?


  1. Why don’t you feel guilty?


There’s dust everywhere always, all your dead skin glaring at you like cremains, and you can dust every fucking day (I don’t) but there’s going to be more.

More dishes, too. I begged my roommate, let’s just switch to paper?  He kept yammering about the environment, no matter how much I insisted paper’s a renewable resource—trees, duh—and that the dishwashing machine energy’s more expensive.

Not that I give a shit about the environment, but it’s like, why even take the fucking dishes out?  You’re just going to put them back in.  Why make the bed when you’re going to un-make it every night? Why pretend you do laundry instead of acknowledging that laundry does you, that your washer and dryer line up to gang bang you almost daily with piles of musty clothes and filthy dryer filters?

My roommate, for all the shits he gives about dishes, can’t bear to empty the dryer filter. Says it grosses him out. But we’ll both die regardless.

I’ve been reading up on existentialism, because I realized at a cocktail party—I’m jk, it was during a Skype chat with some asshole from OK Cupid—that even though I’d been calling myself one for ages, I didn’t really know what the fuck it meant.  And I still probably don’t, not completely, but let me give it a shot.

So, existentialism:

Basically, you can either acknowledge your mortality and choose to live “authentically,” or you can pretend you’re not going to die, live a life in “bad faith,” and conform to everyone else. A slave to the They.

I’m not claiming to be an expert—exactly the opposite—but it’s gotten me thinking a lot, especially on the toilet.  Even though my roommate’s pounding on the door, I don’t give a shit.  I’m not leaving. The bathroom is the only place chill enough to contain my nervous breakdown.  Plus I have to—no, get to—turn on the exhaust vent, which actually doesn’t do much for the smell, but does emit a calming white noise.

This helps my bowels to relax, for one thing. (I have very self-conscious bowels.)

It also helps me concentrate on the difficult task of sifting through my mental bullshit for gold-plated truth nuggets—while fending off worms of doubt.

The more nervous I get, the more worms I find: you are nuts; he is going to report you; you can’t do this; what if he has diarrhea on the hallway floor?

Counterpoint: If my roommate understood what I’m going through, he’d find somewhere else to shit.

Everything has always been too much for me, and me too much for it. Like when I was Christian as a kid. I’d get so frustrated, not only with the fine points (“where did Cain and Abel’s siblings come from?”) but with the  basic premise. If I’m really going to buy into the idea that everyone is condemned to hell unless I get them to admit/believe/commit to/in God/Christ, why bother with school? Why are we meeting in an expensive new youth group annex for donuts when more people are condemned to burn each second? Shouldn’t we be out preaching the #Word?

It helped me let go of the belief later on, knowing that 99% of the people who professed it didn’t act on it. Only now I’m in that same situation with existentialism, because I’d hardly consider my life “authentic.”

I still fantasize about getting a terminal illness and/or facing the apocalypse—only then, it feels like, could I finally be free to do what I want, without worrying nonstop what everyone thinks of me. In the meantime, though, I’m just as bad as the hypocrites. I would also thoroughly like a donut right now, but I’d settle for a milkshake, or—

The word “cop” jerks me out of my haze, and I scream over the fan, “What?” I couldn’t hear wtf my roommate just said over the exhaust fan, so I turn it off and ask him to repeat himself.  I know I should open the door, that he’s getting madder by the second, but if a cop is out there, then I need some time to prepare.

(Another thing I occasionally do in the bathroom, along with shit and philosophize, is smoke weed.  I didn’t mention this before, because I didn’t want it to color your first impressions of me or my dilemma. Although I’m sure for some of you old-fashioned assholes, my quote unquote reputation’s now irreparably damaged.  (I guess it’s pretty arrogant of me, though, to assume that my reputation before this point was good anyway.))

“I need to take a crap,” my roommate says, and I think ohhh, “crap” not “cop” and make an adorable face…a laugh track plays and we cut to commercial—


Or not.

I gather up my Wal-Mart sack of paraphernalia and apologize ten million times, telling him I’m stressed about finals before remembering that it’s winter break and appending, “I mean next semester’s finals.”

I’m not a bad person and I make good grades, don’t get the wrong idea. It’s just that I got dumped lately, and I’m not handling it so great.  I thought reading up on philosophy might be healthier than writing revenge fan fiction, but it hasn’t helped.  I’m just anxious about two things now, instead of one.

Not only a dumped loser, but a failed, fake existentialist. Because if I really believe that I’m going to die at any moment, that this is the only chance I get, then the loss of some guy’s affections wouldn’t matter so much, right?

“In other words,” I ask, “what can I do to stop being a hypocrite, other than trying to kill myself?”

Busting the door open, the policeman my roommate called does not look amused by my question.


In the emergency room the doctors all snicker at you for not only being lame enough to kill yourself but stupid enough to fail.  They point at the scratches on your wrist that’d seemed like such accomplishments considering how hard it was to hold the box cutter against your veins, and they tell you how you barely even nicked yourself.  They don’t even put a Band-Aid on it.  And even though there’s almost certainly pills or even injections that would accomplish this more pleasantly, they’ll have you drink a cup of soda full of charcoal to get the pills you tried to OD on out of your system.  They’ll tell you they mixed the charcoal with Coke, but they didn’t; it’s some kind of off-brand soda that they nevertheless charged you $50 for.  And you have to drink it all.

You’ll keep slipping out of consciousness, which you think would be nice, like dozing on a Sunday afternoon. But you’ll be so terrified of dying (oh now you’re scared, the nurses will sneer) with so much mortality-adrenaline tearing through your veins and infecting your mind that you’ll keep jerking awake. Painfully alert.

Hospital beds are not comfortable, and you don’t know how the fuck you forgot that. Imagining the flowing white sheets of a bed on a detergent commercial while you OD’d in the bathtub, that was a mistake.  The bed you’re strapped to, it’s plastic with a flimsy mattress, all these levers. They don’t use leather straps anymore, but they hook you up to so many electrodes and IVs—not to mention the catheter—that you couldn’t leave even if you weren’t fading and out.

Every time you come back to consciousness, first you feel the weird hard bed, all the tubes. Then you notice your corpse-pale mom in the corner, staring at her feet, and you remember what you did and say you’re sorry, over and over and over, until you drift away for a few seconds more before you snap back and start this again routine again.

You got sick of pushing the Sisyphean boulder tried to opt out, let it roll over you, but it only knocked you out instead of crushing you to death, and now the hill back up is twice as tall. And they will deliberately leave some machine on in the background that chirps endlessly and starts taunting you like the ding ding ding of your turn signal when you’re stuck in traffic.  You won’t be here for long—they’ll transfer you from the ER into the regular hospital pretty quickly because, as some doctor will so sweetly inform your mother, they’re trying to save lives here.

You’ll keep hoping and hoping that a doctor will be nice like they are on Grey’s Anatomy but instead they’ll all act personally insulted, like your suicide attempt was a big fuck you to the medical industry.

At 6:00 pm the night shift will arrive and your family will leave.  Your night shift babysitter—once they’ve got you in the hospital for hurting yourself, they keep a babysitter on you at all times, to make sure you don’t cause some lawsuit—she doesn’t speak much English and keeps nodding off. Wired, you’ll stare at the ceiling while the late night talk shows play, and then the infomercials after them. You’ll stupidly ask for a sleeping pill out of desperation, but they’re like, haven’t you had enough?

This is not even the bad part, though. In the morning, you’ll belong to the mental hospital.