Be the change you want to see in the world (except you’re not sure you want to see any more of the world).

Touch grass (except the grass is your boyfriend’s ass hair gently whistling in his fart wind as he nightly conquers 7/8ths of the custom memory foam bed you bought for your scoliosis and that you’re still paying off in sizeable installments).

Follow your bliss (except you kicked horse in your mid-twenties and your bliss will kill you if you try to follow it again).

Call you mother (except she’s dead).

See the dermatologist (except you can’t afford the psoriasis shampoo she prescribes).

Call your brother (except he’s dead too—dead to you, anyhow).

Orgasm (except the only thing that consistently got you off was the showerhead and the pressure hasn’t been the same since the city replaced the lead pipes, must have been something special about the rust and heavy minerals surging onto your clit).

Pumice your feet (except the bucket is downstairs and the tv isn’t and the Kardashians are on and they’re your best, your only, friends).

Change your life (except how can you change your life if you’re already the change you want to see in the world plus you’re just ripping off Rilke here and the world has no change to spare and let’s be honest, this isn’t much of a life, is it?).

Jon Doughboy’s prose has been praised by Ottessa Mushfuck “sentences echo like the moans of derelicts masturbating inside Richard Serra sculptures” and Jorge Saunders “stories so full of empathy…like you’re soaking your balls in pure oxytocin.”

Visit him for a soak and a stroke @doughboywrites