We do things a certain way


We request, humbly, that creators submit to our particular

house style.

Paint with the colors we prefer

like the grim domesticity of “desert accent” vinyl siding.

Write not nimbly

but with the determined grace of a tractor trailer cab

backing into, then coupling with, it’s trailer hub.

We respectfully demand that all auteurs shoot with the numbed reverence

of a Cadillac commercial. 

Sometimes the risk is not worth the gain.


Ok cloud. I see you up there.

You big dumb pile of fluffy bullshit. 

Hey, cloud: I have a question-

Why are you so stupid?

What do you even look like, anyway? 


“Oh, I’m a fish with a hat!

Now I’m some leaves!

Now I’m a dragon with no nose!”




Cumulonimbus? More like cumulonimbASS! 


You puffy bastard, I bet you don’t even 

Have an opinion on the debt ceiling. 

I bet you can’t even 

carry a conversation about the upcoming elections. 


America’s headed in the wrong direction, they say.

Our society is under attack, they say. 

They ask me what I’m doing about it. 

But what are YOU doing about it? Eh, cloud?

Floating tranquilly? 



Are you even listening, you wispy motherfucker?


Riddle me this, you marshmallowy nutsack:

What are the profit margins on picturesque skylines?

Oh thats right,

Thats not even a thing


Great. Now you’re dissipating.

Sure, just run away whenever anything gets tough,

is that what they teach you in cloud school?

Everyone eventually turns into their parents.


My stupid ocean faces the wrong way

so I don’t get to watch the sun set into it.

Sometimes, you see a girl who looks good

in photographs and you’re lucky enough to know her personally. 

Sometimes you have to speak in the second person when you

really mean to speak in the first. 

Other people have already written the best words, but it’s hackneyed

to use them. 

All the cool kids are pessimists. 

Sometimes you have to stand in front of the bathroom mirror

and stare into your own eyes

and be hypercritical of your pupils, the way you are 

with the rest of yourself.

Sometimes, dreams mean something

and sometimes they’re just about colorful sweatshirts

and invented girls and beanbag chairs. 

Sometimes, you wish everything was a black and white

photo of the girl you like,

who’s too cool to admit she has depression.

she has that combination of mournful beauty and abused potential usually reserved for dead flowers.

Sometimes the words “this town” don’t mean a fucking thing.