I'll never understand the whole again. It

I'll never understand the whole again. It will always be a sum of parts. Each part neatly tucked away in the Rolodex waiting for

the wake of creativity -- Godzilla on the storm -- to tumble in and shatter the tiny reminisces of my inconsistent life betrayals. If onlys and what ifs force this gentle

swaying of my thoughts to and fro. Like a boat lost at sea in the most gentle of tortured storms. Great, I'm getting philosophical again, my girlfriend hates that.

I don't know what to say to my girlfriend anymore. "Do you still love me?" she asks. I love as much as I know how to love a vapid, bitch, I suppose. But I give a different reply.

"You've got in spinch stuck in your teeth." The way she hurled the salad bowl at me makes me think my first idea might have been a better choice afterall. Gingerly I scrap chives

into a bowl of sour cream and pretended not to notice the tossed salad on the floor. I flounced past her and into the dining room where a large crowd of diners sat waiting around a

To fold stories and posted them online. The number of likes soared overnight, much yo the disgust of the salad on the floor. Tristan Tzara filmed the occasion and called it Dada.

Destin clamped his fists against his temples. "The utter barrage!" he exclaimed. "How could anyone sort and sift and navigate this!" Dustin tried to help, but he only had eleven d

ays to get it done. Sighing, Destin and Dustin bent to their seemingly endless task once more, wondering how the hoarding had begun in the first place.