Raising Hell

by Daryl Banner

You tell this sort of story to your closest friend. That’s gonna have to be you today. So sit back, relax with your new best friend (me), and take a big, deep sip of this what-the-fuck cocktail I just whipped up for your thirsty little lips, which I hope you enjoy. If you make it through the first chapter, you’ve already won.

Now he has seven figures in his bank account. And I have a tattoo on my dick. Sorry. Maybe there’s a better time I could have revealed that.

In my best National Geographic narrator voice: This is the first step of the gay mating ritual, a most peculiar and intricate dance of pussyfooting, eye-fucking, and denial. Observe as these crazy bitches of the wild flaunt their feathers.

This tragically sexy fool with chocolate stuck at the corner of his lips is literally apologizing for apologizing.

The phone is lying on my bed like a neglected lover. I glare at it every time I look its way, like it’s done something shameful. Charlie isn’t calling. Please act surprised and wounded for me. It helps.

If you look into someone’s eyes long enough, you will always find sadness.

Hate is so fucking easy. Hate is for wimps. Hate is for the lazy fuckers of the world who can’t be bothered with intelligence.

You never know where life will take you. Only that it will. And you better be ready for every moment of it, because no moment lasts forever, and each and every one of them is a golden, perfect thing to cherish.