Spencer Moseley

He stared at the granola bar crumbs on his stomach. My stupid fat stomach, he thought, brushing the crumbs into that weird space no vacuum could reach. It was raining. He was parked. HE WAS PARKED. When the fuck had that happened? What would've happened if he'd still been driving in this dissociated state, he thought. He wondered if he would feel anything if his car had rolled over someone.  His Camry was parked under a tree.  "Free carwash," he said in a goofy voice, mimicking corporate speech. He made himself laugh a little.  He did notice how the big drops of rain plopped harder if they fell from the tree rather than the sky. Hm, that's weird, he thought. Wow what an interesting thought, he thought sarcastically. You should tell that story sometime. He remembered his younger days when he ran around playing soccer with his friends. Man, I used to just jump into soccer games without a care in the world. What have I become? He noticed half a blunt remaining in a g...

"I am disappointed in you," he admitted, arms crossed. He was hard to look at. His wife had encouraged him to get film treatment, where they encased your naked body completely in a film that was meant to de-age you. But the treatment was experimental, and did not work on his entire body. So while the skin beneath his eyes, for example, looked tight, bronze and youthful; one of his eyelids had escaped the film. The wrinkly lid partially blocked his vision and hung over his red eye, which was red from the lid's contact irritation. "I'm actually glad you said it out loud," said Alex. "I've been feeling your disappointment for a while, so weirdly it's nice to hear you say it.  His father said something so softly Alex couldn't hear it, and he hung his head low. Alex was pleased to see his sadness. Not because he wanted his dad to feel shitty, but because perhaps it was a signal of growth.  "So what now?" asked Alex.  "I don't k...

He never did know what to do with his hands or legs or hips at the club before the drugs hit. Well to be fair he didn't know what to do with them most of the time. He was cursed with a level of self-awareness others didn't seem to share. Or were they all wearing masks of comfort and chillness? He grabbed drinks for his friends and realized it came out to $85 after the tip. He felt his chest tighten and breathily said "no big deal" when Jen asked if she could Venmo him for her drink.  She probably wouldn't Venmo me even if I'd said yes, he convinced himself. She did still owe him $12 for a Lake Trip when he'd spotted her some dough for some event he couldn't remember now. But he did not forget the $12. Jesus I'm intense about money, he thought.  He swayed a bit and noticed a cute black girl leaning on the counter, talking to her friends. She had purple lipstick and a yellow-purple dress where the two colors waved into one another in swirls. Her laug...

I sat down and pulled my laptop from my bag and set it on the dock. I put my iced coffee on my desk, grateful that I didn't have a coaster. This office didn't deserve my respect. I typed in my password, hit enter, and watched as the circle of dots spun at varying speeds.  "Could I see you in my office?" asked Diane, my manager, standing uncomfortably close to me at the cubicle entrance.  "Of course," I said with the best smile I could produce.  I sat down opposite her after sliding the glass door of her office suite closed behind me. She definitely wasn't afraid of eye contact, and she also wasn't afraid of looking pissed off. I met her gaze as best I could, already figuring what this was about. I felt my whole body heat up with microwave speed.  "You weren't working by 8 am," she said. She folded her hands together in front of her on the desk. I held onto the wooden chair rails like they were keeping me from falling. "I was at my ...

Content note: This piece explores themes of depression and suicidal thoughts in a fictional context. Please take care while reading. "Things really took a turn when you dyed your hair jet black," I said. "They turned before that." "When?" I persisted. "This was always me."  I heard the shakiness in the voice. I could feel their anxiety so fully. How could I empathize this completely? Never mind that. I dug my heels in.  "You wrote poetry before." "I wasn't really a poet though. I was a wannabe poet." "I liked your poems." The shaking came next. The breaths grew shallow. Red flush to the face. "If you think I can just be that unstable loser I once was—" Wait.  The "I"... wasn't me...  Someone else was talking to me— Questioning me.

I was in a sentimental place for my last post. and now i'm more somber. somber is a good word huh. feels like you're cuddling with that one bear from that movie with the kid and the bear. i remember he looked like a younger tarzan or something. wtf was that movie about anyway? had some remake with christopher waken? Walken? Walker? Johnnie Walker black on ice.  But anyway yeah i'm somber. how bout that weather huh? and them gas prices?  i put my hand to my heart now and that's my prayer. i imagine this cool jesus. partially the jesus from the bible. partially my imagination. and he's always chilled out and having a good time. how do some people always seem at peace and chillin', you know? like mannn there's shit out here to worry about how can you be all chillaxedddd.  i wanna go clubbing this weekend in a gandalf costume. and do some karaoke. and have those things that you crack and they light up neon green all over me. and wear light up shoes. that would b...

I'm feeling a lot of inner change lately. The kind that makes you think and rethink and come to grips. And loosen other grips. And then grip again. That gorilla grip grip gripping. I'm pretty sure this writing style is annoying. No actually — I’m gonna be confident in it and just roll with this. I've been practicing more confidence. Unleashing my inner self. That feels good. It feels aligned. I haven't trusted myself. Maybe ever. I've always felt a need to prove myself. And be something. To others. Someone people looked up to. Looked at. Admired. Loved. Needed. I want to be needed. Not really loved. I don't think I've ever craved a lot of love. Maybe that's ’cause I've always had love and taken it for granted — unlike some others less fortunate. I feel bad for them. But wanting to be needed perhaps comes from a deeper well of insecurity I'm uncovering lately. I feel like I'm digging things up. Unearthing things. And it's painfu...