For many people, this might be a complicated question, if not offensive.  Who can say with certainty what twists a normal human mind, full of potential and promise, into a mangled mass of neurons such as mine.  Genetic defects, perhaps; a brain born incapable of producing that optimum mix of neurotransmitters essential to a happy and fulfilled life.  Or a half-buried childhood trauma that wordlessly drives one into a self-destructive cocoon of chemical isolation.  Or, conceivably, being smarter than most of one’s peers and capable of recognizing the tortured hypocrisies that fill the world we inhabit…

Read the rest in the Clockwise Cat…

Because I grew up in a bland, East Coast suburb far removed from my Midwestern roots, I rarely met any of my extended family members.  Of course, since the invention of the automobile and the airplane, geographical distance only goes so far in explaining the dearth of family connections experienced by people such as myself.  A certain degree of emotional distance is also to blame.  In my case, this was due in large part to the fact that the families of my mother and father were unlikely to view one another with any sense of familiarity, let alone friendliness.

Although neither side of my family was over-populated by over-achievers, at least my mother’s side included professional musicians and artists who lived in real cities like New York.  My father’s family was more likely to include professional railroad and carnival workers in Wichita.  It was differences like these that bespoke a gaping chasm in world view within my extended family unit…

Read the rest in Short Humour’sPeople of Few Words, Volume 2…

I was a bland and humorless child.  The causes of this condition are legion.  Start with the combed-over, slicked-down hair, parted just above my left ear and extending in a single horrifying mass all the way to my right ear.  Throw in debilitating shyness, paralyzing social anxiety, and a genetic inability to catch, hit, throw, or run while holding a ball of any kind, and you have the makings of one sorry specimen of American boyhood—me.  And it was all down hill as I made my way into an awkward adolescence and dysfunctional young adulthood: glasses with lenses as thick as bricks, volcanic pustules of cystic acne, and a nearly terminal case of protracted virginity…

Read the rest at The Short Humour Site…

Because I grew up in a bland, East Coast suburb far removed from my Midwestern roots, I rarely met any of my extended family members.  Of course, since the invention of the automobile and the airplane, geographical distance only goes so far in explaining the dearth of family connections experienced by people such as myself.  A certain degree of emotional distance is also to blame.  In my case, this was due in large part to the fact that the families of my mother and father were unlikely to view one another with any sense of familiarity, let alone friendliness.

Although neither side of my family was over-populated by over-achievers, at least my mother’s side included professional musicians and artists who lived in real cities like New York.  My father’s family was more likely to include professional railroad and carnival workers in Wichita.  It was differences like these that bespoke a gaping chasm in world view within my extended family unit…

Read the rest at The Short Humour Site…

At the time, it seemed like the ideal moment to make my move.

It’s not every day I find myself engaged in rapt conversation with a beautiful woman fifteen years younger than myself; her eyes fixed on mine with an intensity suggesting more than a passing interest.

Smoothly, coolly, nonchalantly, I said, “We should get together sometime. Like, go somewhere. Or something”…

Read the rest at The Short Humour Site…

This was the defining moment that separates men from boys.

He opened the driver’s side door with a swagger.

No longer would he have to endure fatherly admonishments about traffic safety. Now, there would be speeding. And drinking. And girls. Lots of girls.…

Read the rest at The Short Humour Site…

When the first of my failed marriages came to an end, there was only one thing I wanted: sex. Not passionate lovemaking infused with deep emotion, but raw fucking that leaves a really big wet spot. I seriously entertained the idea of hiring a hooker for her services, but I was a “high-end call girl” kind of guy on a “toothless crack whore” budget, so paying for sex was out of the question. And, as a shy alcoholic who’d been dry for less than a year, joining the inebriated herd at a singles bar was unthinkable. So I decided to try what was then a relatively new option for desperate and socially isolated people in search of companionship: internet dating…

Read the rest at The Short Humour Site…

For the purposes of my writing outside of the office in which I actually earn a paycheck, my name is “Gil A. Waters.”

How would you describe what you do?

I try to transform personal tragedy into prosaic beauty. Put differently, I engage in therapeutic writing that I hope others will enjoy reading…

Read the rest at In To Views…

He opened the driver’s side door with a swagger.

No longer would he have to endure fatherly admonishments about traffic safety.  Now, there would be speeding.  And drinking.  And girls.  Lots of girls…

Read the rest in BURST…

At the time, it seemed like the ideal moment to make my move.

It’s not every day I find myself engaged in rapt conversation with a beautiful woman fifteen years younger than myself; her eyes fixed on mine with an intensity suggesting more than a passing interest.

Smoothly, coolly, nonchalantly, I said, “We should get together sometime.  Like, go somewhere.  Or something.”

Perhaps my wooing abilities had grown a bit rusty.  But I hoped the sincerity of my offer would convey an endearing sense of innocence.

A bitter smile broke across her face.  She shook her head in a manner that unequivocally said “no” and redirected her gaze downwards to the gray surface of the metal table at which we sat…

Read the rest in Gloom Cupboard…