all the thoughts that spin and wane in your head that amount to nothing have been stamped into a book about a horny jewish kid surrounded by colored, directionless people.
i like how the book begins without any mention of sex, almost like if it was tarnished with it, someone would stop reading, so he had to wait until they're pretty invested to whip out the weird shit.
if a stranger wanted to sit around and talk about failed relationships, his family, and his penis for an hour.
used all three persons, how clever. i liked the emotion. i liked the chronology.
we can talk about pickles, pillows, pizza, television, roller skating, stuffed animals. it will always have to do with his penis.
i like the fragments. i just don't like him. he seems like the kind of guy who wants to be the straight man so no one will think he's weird or dislike him. and he'll make little jokes under his breath and hope someone notices and if they don't he'll just go in the back and jerk off in a bathroom stall. which happens a lot.
"Mimi coughed out a beautiful white dove and then she died of a heart attack and then the dove died of a heart attack." 122
liked the flow and texture. he can get things laminated, perfect. but i couldn't get past the high probability that he wrote the book with a hand in his pants.
"Ayyaeah."
this book smells like the tiniest book store selling incense and little gold pendants
"butterfly wings of ass sweat"
your penis should not have more personality than you.
"They were talking about how sometimes you can reach a wonderful truth based on a lie and, at five in the morning, they held hands." 130
there is nothing poetic about your penis.
is heather honey? their love story could be a movie, it couldn't. it is a secret from the rest of the world.
shaddap you face
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