C.J. Henderson


I’ve got these strange red splotches on my legs. At first I thought they might be heat rash. The scientific name for that is miliaria, which sounds like a cross between malaria and a rather beautiful name for a baby girl. It’s actually a disease, albeit a relatively innocuous one. […]

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I’m sitting here in my basement, freezing my ass off in my boxers and more terrified than I’ve been in my entire fucking life. It’s almost 3am, I don’t want to wake up my wife and I sure as hell don’t want her to ask what I’m writing about. I

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I just killed myself for breakfast. I sat in my 100+ degree car, reeking of maple syrup and incapable of many coherent thoughts save for that one. It swayed through my mind like a dead leaf, falling into my consciousness by random assignment. I had been up since 4:30 in

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The Artist

There’s this painting my wife loves, called “Death and Life”, by Klimt. I don’t know what she finds so fascinating about it. I made all the right noises when she showed me her beloved framed print when we were first dating, “oohing” and “ahhing” and making up some bullshit about warm

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