< part one Kyle was a glow-stick raver with stainless spikes in his ears until he got hold of a bad dose of sunshine and shit himself at Coachella, found Jesus Christ while sucking on ice cubes and staring at the ceiling of a darkened recovery tent. Now he was…

< part two My final coaching conversation was a speakerphone three-way with Sharon at HR. Kyle rubbed a flaky hole in his earlobe and nodded while Sharon charted my course according to PapaTaco’s flat-Earth map of corporate expectations. My current heading had long ago sailed beyond the point of here…

< back to chapter one THAT WAS THE DAY I LEFT THE APARTMENT FOR GOOD. The moment it became clear I’d put faith and trust in someone who obstructed my development? Prevented me from connecting crucial dots? …

< part one All I needed that day was a shred of peace. Enough silence and sacred space to recover from another eight-hour-long punch in the face disguised as employment. I took my breaks at my desk and did crossword puzzles. Spent sixty silent minutes hunched over my phone in…

Carpe FM = longboredsurfer dot com slash charts —

< back to part five Pris picked up the first round. I stared into the fizzing abyss of a double Jack and Coke and figured fuck it. Thirteen days was a decent streak. I could find another piece of string in London. I just needed a day or two to…

< back to part four A camera crew tracked me and Pris from the elimination ceremony to a waiting minibus. Scalding indignity rose from my bones and baked the space between my skin and my clothes, making both layers unbearable. Pris shed her banishment tracksuit and changed into her “cozies”…

< back to part three Pris and I got ratted out by Sally Fein, a disability-rights advocate who came to the carnival with a goddamn GoPro buckled to her son’s wheelchair. The device captured Pris’ intellectualist slur and my snorting approval with uncanny fidelity. Rather than throw us to the…

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