I like to watch a horror movie right up until the climax before switching to the next, and so on. I do this until I find the perfect horror movie to finish to. I do this until I explode with frightful ecstasy.

I call this Terror Edging.

Upon my death it will be the only thing that lingers in the minds of anyone who knew me. All of my mannerisms, all of my quirks, my laugh, the small things that have embedded themselves in the minds of my friends, will recede into the ocean of time.

They are dust like me.

This is my legacy and I accept that. I am strangely comforted by this.

Terror edging, baby. We out here.


On sulfuric hooves, I am striding through the Phish concert.

I am radiating bad vibes.

Wretched vibes.

Hellish vibes.

I am a cancerous black well.

Like a herd of sheep cut through by wolves, the crowd scatters. They are bleating. A dreadlock-bandanna-man crumples as the eyes rupture in his skull. “THEY’RE JUST DICKING AROUND IN THE BLUES SCALE” my voice booms “HOW LONG IS THIS FUCKING SOLO.” The scrambling masses shriek as my terrible negative vibes wash over them. I throw my head back in ecstasy and disgust. A crown of flames erupts from my skull as my eyes turn…


You are 4 cortados deep, sitting in a cafe working on the shitty screenplay you started 3 years ago. I am sitting next to you pretending to read a book titled “The Chemical History of a Candle” I am stealing glances of you. Shamelessly — a hair gel caked pill bug. I remove my lens-less glasses and clean the frames on my curry-stained J.Crew shirt. The buttons are very snug across my belly, which I am now noticeably sucking in. “Hey that’s such a cool tattoo” I say, pointing to your forearm. “Is that a candle?” I ask. You nod…


I’m an eboy. I’ve DMed you a stark illustration of Salome kissing the severed head of John the Baptist. “Us” I say. The image burns through the cracked screen as you lay upon your floor-mattress. In this windowless basement apartment your phone is the only light. The frayed end of the charging cable retreats into the dry darkness — rapidly flitting between dating and social media apps has had the phone stuck at 13% for hours. Another notification from my bubble. A new image. A depiction of Judith and Holofernes accented in gold leaf. It looks old but the image…


  1. Oxidizes your poops, making them odorless, chalky, and smooth like an egg
  2. Renders the pervasive alienation of modern life more tolerable by making your poops fat and good
  3. Induces bowel movements to take place but once a year, accompanied by overwhelming physical pleasure and a lingering sense of well-being
  4. Immunity to loneliness, the perpetual trap of desire, and any weapon wielded against you in malice
  5. Causes shoulder blades to become tender, the skin to flake off, and enormous exquisitely beautiful wings to erupt there
  6. Taking flight with your resplendent wings into the ether, transcending this cruel mortal realm into a new and tranquil world where suffering is but a distant hazy memory
  7. Increased liver function (unproven but strongly correlated)


I am beginning my transition into a lifestyle blogger. Follow my insta where you can watch me just kind of be at the beach a lot and now I’m petting a tiger. The lighting is perfect. Everyone loves me. Does everyone love you? They don’t. You probably go to the beach barely at all. I’m promoting a brand of bottled water now. In a glass bottle. Only comes in glass. They donate a swimsuit to needy hot babes for every bottle you buy. The bottle has Bluetooth in it and connects to my app. I have an app. I’m now…


You are at guitar center standing between two racks of guitar strings and plastic capos. I sit before you like a burnt slug. I am antibiotic resistant bacteria. I am pockmarked like the moon. A greasy ponytail lays draped across my back. Thin strands of hair still pepper my frontal hairline, clinging desperately to my scalp. a few of them stand — plucked from their root in the sparseness — betraying the yellowing hairbands age. Knotted balls of dead strands have collected around the band, cementing it in place. My fat, permanently wet fingers traipse across the fret board with…


You have passed away. You are now in hell for leaving eGirls on seen. You are seated at a table surrounded by old people slurping and suckling soup. You are unable to tell if the musty smell filling the humid room is emanating from its occupants or the broth they feast upon. Oh, how they slurp and suckle the fetid broth. The man nearest you draws his head from his ceramic trough long enough to notice you. “Well now” he chokes out, flakes of carrot dangling from an accidentally unshaven spot on his jowl “look who decided to finally visit…


In the world of Richard Scarry, I am an anthropomorphic bear that lives inside of a crying breast. I drive a car in the shape of a watermelon that runs on poop I collect from restaurants around Busytown. This is my job. I collect the poop and fill my watermelon-car’s gas tank up just enough to continue my poop-begging rounds. Unable to ignore my hunger pangs any longer, I must now grovel for food. With contempt, an elephant-man who drives a golf ball-car tosses me rotten pig trimmings. He and the crow-woman who drives a toilet-car laugh together as I…


Dear Jason,

I have been playing French Horn in this ska band for 4 months now. At this point it should be clear to you that I have proven myself as an enduring asset and positive influence on this band. It is I who, at great personal expense, purchased black and white checkered shoe laces for everyone in the band (6 pairs). It is I who came up with the idea to call our instrumental song “Ska-tastrophy” instead of the grossly inappropriate and juvenile “Suck my Skack”. It is I who has been, without being asked to, shouting “pick it…

Matt Moir

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