Spencer Moseley

I scoured the karaoke bar desperately searching for a hot single girl. There was a table of three girls and two guys, so perhaps one of them was single. That felt somewhat promising. I kept refreshing FB Dating and decided to spend ten minutes swiping. My friends were not on their phones so I felt guilty for being on mine. But I crushed that doubt remembering that nothing means anything and that we will all eventually die so who cares.  The table had lots of wet spots, and I didn't want to touch it since it was sticky too. I had already bought four green tea shots and I was slowly sipping a Gatorade-green margarita—so sugary I could not taste the Lalo Tequila I had spent extra money for.  I reminded myself what ChatGPT had told me. It said that looking for girls instead of being present is usually a less enjoyable time, and it was right. Damn that AI is good , I thought. So I tried to get back to the moment and turned to my friend to make fun of one of the singers. We had some...

I agonized over seeing if the Chinatown pet spa had finished grooming my dog or not; but I hated to be that guy. The guy who bothers people. The spa lady told me that I would get a text when my dog was ready, and I hadn't gotten a text yet. On top of that I was anxious about being late for an appointment. So anyway I walked past the spa. "For sure I'll return and check on him soon," I thought, trying to restore my self-confidence. Lying to myself that I was just "giving the spa people more time" reduced my conviction that I was a pussy. I walked past the spa. I had no real plan. I had just finished a gym workout, but I hadn't walked a full thirty minutes after said workout. This could be my cooldown walk. I entered an Asian liquor store near the spa. It was clean and smelled like a minty car air freshener. The store's AC was just weak enough to be uncomfortable. There was an oval, wrap-around counter in the center of the store, which looked more like...

Why did you have to be such a bitch , he thought. He rubbed his eyes and starred out the slightly dirty car window. One traffic light made him squint, and he noticed its rays shining in four distinct directions.  She didn’t have to be such an asshole at the end. But maybe she did. Maybe that’s how you make sure two people don’t try to linger as friends who secretly still want something. He sipped some Mike's Hard Lemonade that his friend had left in his cupholder. It was warm.  He was waiting for her to finish some fight with a bridezilla she'd run into in the bar. He wanted to fuck her, sort of. Not really. He was just sad and craving something tender. He leaned his seat back fully and balled his eyes out. He felt his chest heave and ho as it always did with heavy sobs.  But then it subsided, and he was back to a semi-depressed, semi-okay state of mind. The most common state in his adult life. When had he lost his passion? he thought. Was it when he left the military? Wa...

It wouldn't be accurate to say they ignored Tim. They called Tim. They talked to Tim. But there was some force field limit. A wall that couldn't be breached, not unlike that giant bubble in Star Wars Clone Wars that kept out the invaders with their red laser bullets.  "How's work going, Tim?" They'd ask him.  "Oh it's fine," he'd say. And perhaps he'd go into more detail. Perhaps he'd mention a coworker who'd given him trouble. Or a new project that was tiring him out. But then this limit would come up whenever it drifted toward why his days were heavy. Like someone quietly turning a dial down. Not hostile. Just… less room. His lack of Christian faith seemed to sit there between them. And so any conversation that ventured into why his life was difficult was nearly off-limits. Not because his sibs would fight him on it, but because they felt his issues would be non issues if he simply returned to Christ. He had tried talking about ...

His head was bald, except for some, what looked like 5 o'clock shadow beard stubble, on one part of his head. Like if you were to look at someone's head from above and divide it into four quadrants, that beard stubble would be covering one of those quadrants. The stubble looked like the rough side of Velcro. And then he had toilet paper wrapped around his head where a headband would normally sit. There was no blood or anything, so I wasn't sure if this was a fashion or religious choice. Like maybe his religion demanded some headwear, but he'd forgotten to put on his religious headwear that morning; and this was his only way of meeting that obligation.  None of that matters to this story. I'm not even sure if this is a story really. All that to say, this man was talking in broken English to a lady across from him. She was mostly dressed normally, all in black, and her English was equally broken. Well not broken. I think in order to speak in broken English, you would ...

Colorful ribbons connected the rooftops for the Dia de los Muertos celebration. Those lights you always see at bars with an outdoor patio were also strewn around. I liked that.  I grabbed a concha from a street vendor, not because I particularly liked them—they always drained the moisture out of my mouth—but because they reminded me of grandma. Anytime she was with us as kids she always had to buy us conchas or those empanadas with pumpkin.  I was by myself this year and had snagged a candle with a base to catch the wax. I walked around the courtyard and looked at the murals with skeletons. Some were playing instruments. And some were in ridiculous dance poses. But they were all happy.  I wasn't unhappy or happy this year. I was as indifferent as could be. And that felt worse. I wanted to feel SOMETHING. Especially with the death of my grandma having been so recent. I was SUPPOSED to feel something looking at these scenes. The only thing catching my eye were the gorgeous ...