By CL Bledsoe

My triceps and biceps went on a game show. The object of the show was to name the original color of various celebrities’ hair, based on their first appearances in film and television. The contestants were awarded bonus points if they could name the actual original color of certain celebrities’ hair, if it was different from the color featured in the first appearance, and even more bonus points were awarded if the contestants could name the brands and types of dyes used. My biceps tied by naming the original color of a forgettable actresses’ hair based on…


By CL Bledsoe

If you’re looking for moonbeams, you’re blinking up the wrong horse. It’s not even night, here. That planet you see in the evenings hovering is actually Venus. Notice how far it remains from your fin-gers. A girl I once loved told me that. Let us consider the weight of evening air on the already swollen glands, the sweep of the breeze across reddening skin. Leaves dropping, still green, whose crunch underfoot will reveal only headaches and runny noses. Likewise baseball caps as serving any purpose other than covering receding hairlines, the wriggle of flesh in jeans drifting forever further from your straining thumbs. It was the taste you missed most at night.


By CL Bledsoe

We killed the baby with our teeth. We killed it with questions about God. We killed the baby and sold its unused diapers to transients. We killed the baby so we could sleep. The baby wasn’t ours. We killed someone else’s baby. The baby’s real parents paid us to kill it. The baby wasn’t real. We were real, though. We had a cashier’s check to prove it. We kept it in her purse until we could make it to the bank. We buried the baby under our porch. We planted bushes around our porch. The bushes died. We killed the bushes by not fer-tilizing them properly. Babies don’t make good fertilizer. This was our lesson. This was what we learned.


By CL Bledsoe

We couldn’t grow, so we ate seeds. We wore platform shoes, hopped in place and took pictures so the blur appeared to be legs. We avoid-ed preservatives, but it was obviously too late. We drank absurdity by the case when we could find it at Costco. Small dogs sniffed our legs but refused to hump us. Cats avoided our televisions. None of us did our homework, and yet we all graduated. Time became an en-emy to which we all conceded. Our thoughts were not our own, and that was fine as long as we didn’t have to dwell on it.


By CL Bledsoe

When I couldn’t put up with the noise anymore, I went and found someone in green.

“Can you move it a bit further away?” I asked him.

He pointed me to another man in green and this one pointed me to a woman. She sent me back to the second guy but I couldn’t find him so I decided to cross the lines and ask someone there. But they were even less helpful because they didn’t understand me.

I went back to the first guy but he was on the phone. I went back in-side and turned…


By CL Bledsoe

Before he was discovered, before the press exploded things, before he was a name, he was just a smell on the interstate. He was drift-body, private, lump in the eddies, flesh swelling out. The discolora-tions around his neck, wrists and ankles were of no interest to any-one. Is it worth the loss of so much to gain discovery? He couldn’t say. He has no tongue, no ability to produce comprehendible speech. If he could speak, would he? This is the question that sets their pens jittering. They imagine his head twisting up out of the water, the…


By CL Bledsoe

The wind blew steadily for three days before they came. The power had been out since the first day from downed trees. The water was out because the pump was electric. We were pissing in the back yard, shitting in a child’s potty we’d found in the attic. What we missed the most was status updates. They came in hard, rocking the house on its rotting foundations. Everything had already been stripped from the walls, so there was nothing left to fall but our hopes. They entered through the already broken windows, twirling in the dust that…


By CL Bledsoe

a.
I lost my virginity to an armadillo
named Brenda. Have you
ever been to Texas? Try finding something
other than armadillos to sleep with.
Then tell me something
about love, funny pants.

b.
Strange men came to the door, begging
for gluten-free bread. We never turned anyone away,
unless they had no money. Sometimes we made
them dance and play songs, but only
when we were really bored.

c.
My mother robbed banks, wore ugly clothes,
and discriminated against peoples whose cultures
she didn’t understand. My father had sex
with strangers for money. On Sundays,
we’d hitch…


By CL Bledsoe

They have no shoes. Their toes curl like clenched fists. They live on a diet of chocolate and blood and never share. We hand them paper as offering, and they take our fingers. We try to teach them to dance, and they drip on our carpets and stare. We try baking, leasing miner-al rights quite reasonably. They have no interest in the things of the belly or hands, only what’s beneath each. They smile while they peel our faces, chuckle while they guzzle from our throats, guffaw loudly while pureeing our organs. They sniffle in the heat of our common rooms, leave muddy trails on our stylish white carpets. When there’s nothing left of us, we rise and follow them out into the drizzle, chocolate in our pockets, coldness beneath our skins.


By CL Bledsoe

1. A lack of whiskers and yet a general scratchiness.
2. In the place of eyes, teeth.
3. Cream for cheeks. Also, texture.
4. Styling of hair. Cleanliness.
5. A certain Romanness of the nose having never been broken by supposed loved ones.
6. Multiple eyebrows.
7. Zipper lines.
8. The invitation of love.
9. Divisibility by seven.
10. Feathers. Softness. Purity.
11. A belief in hard work and Christian Values.
12. The tiniest of holes around the abnormally puffy lips.
13. The inability to smile or experience joy.
14. Lack of blood beneath the surface.
15. A sense of worth betrayed by price tags stylishly sewn into the back of each head.

Not Another TV Dad

Stuff My Stupid Heart Likes by CL Bledsoe (co-author of https://medium.com/@howtoeven and The Wild Word: https://medium.com/search?q=not%20another%20tv%20dad)

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