Wanderers

by Chuck Wendig

Dreams were not made on the internet; they were killed there. By mean, nasty little shits who were all looking to one-up each other.

you could watch a rat fight a dog for a bagel. (Spoiler: The rat would win because New York rats were unfuckwithable.)

A fire broke out backstage in a theatre. The clown came out to warn the public; they thought it was a joke and applauded. He repeated it; the acclaim was even greater. I think that’s just how the world will come to an end: to general applause from wits who believe it’s a joke. —Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or, part 1

“Go have a nap, snowflake. You look like shit.”

Here lies Pete Corley. He lived too long, really. Long enough to make it weird.

A year ago he wouldn’t have been caught dead eating a bag of Fritos, but now they were like a taste of Heaven. Salty and oily, with a southwestern zest. He wanted to marry these Fritos. He wanted to pour them in a tub and roll around in it.

“I’m fine,” he said, obviously lying. “You’re obviously lying,” she said, obviously figuring out how obviously he was lying.

“What will you do?” “Same thing you do when you meet a bear: play dead. And then, after that, probably die for real.”