The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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Jon Boilard says he writes in part because “it’s cheaper than therapy.” Every year since 2003 he has been invited to read his work at the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Festival in Cork, Ireland. He lives in San Francisco.
I open my eyes and an ex-stripper tells me to fuck off. Then it must be a couple hours later and I’m upstairs and it’s dark and I’m thinking of quicker ways to kill myself. A far-off foghorn is warning ships away from the cliffs. It’s a sad sound, long and low. I can taste on my teeth what I drank all night. Darling Nikki is asleep on her back on the mattress next to me — I call her that after the Prince song.