Dreams // Tiare Jung Dear dreams: I think we should go on magical metaphysical adventures. Spelunking the caves of mental potential, I’m sure we could come up with something more thrilling than having awkward sex, falling, being naked in public, or being chased by flamingos wearing crocheted leg warmers. Next time, I propose we meet in an alternate dimension of the subconscious, where we can explore a new avenue in our relationship – a more edgy, creative one, like where I’m a botanical tattoo shaman that tattoos people’s flesh with growing plants that actually perform photosynthesis through the skin, giving them limitless renewable energy that they can use to perform amazing and/or inane feats like parkour, powering hair straighteners, or providing an alternative to fossil fuels and saving the world. I will have the wit and eloquence of Oscar Wilde and be infinitely wealthy with laughter; insert consensual, multi-orgasmic sex somewhere in this formula and BAM! Together we’ll create a new dimension of ultimate sleep-induced escapist fantasy.

Pants // Kevin Murray Oh pant, why dost thou hide me so? I long to be free, swinging in the breeze, cavorting and frolicking in the morning dew, but no; convention has caught me and its name is pant. That is you; thou art foul and wretched, an abrasion on mine slinky wiggler. Oh, how I long for freedom! Like a wretched serf wandering through the fish market in the stinky morning, replete with the wine stains of last night’s sordid tavern soiree, dazzled by the harsh glare of mine own constriction bulging free from a belt buckle of too-tightness. Oh pant, how many times have you thwarted my aim? How many streams have I wandered, only to bid goodbye to perfectly good boots when the alley’s angle is obtuse? May I never cross you, pant, for you are both gaoler and jail, support and solitary punishment; but I need you, pant, oh yes, for without you, I dost dangle all higgledypiggledy in the wind of mine own woozy wandering, spraying promises willy nilly … promises I dare not keep

Bro-Fisting // Mike Bastien Bro-fisting is a sacred tradition among males, passed down since ancient times. It all started when Poseidon and Zeus defeated a bunch of titans. The two were so stoked they forged this manly ritual to celebrate; thus began the legend of Broseidon. Now it is used as a sign of true bromance, appropriate for whenever your bro does something radical, such as downing a jagerbomb or chainsawing a life-size statue of Tom Brady. Under broutstanding circumstances, an exploding bro-fist might even be necessary. To determine if you are worthy of hittin’ some of your own bro-skin, ask yourself: would you bro-fist your bro if: There was a deadliest warrior marathon on Spike? If “Don’t Stop Believing” came on the radio? If a cat fight breaks out? If your wingman uses a lame pick-up line? If you acquire two playoff tickets? If you answered “no” to any of these, then un-pop your collar because you are a broser. Try a “hug”. Hugs are the feminine equivalent of the bro-fist. They are often followed by an exchange of words about one’s feelings, and that’s lame, bro!

Teen Crush // Katherine Alpen If I never hear the phrase “so who do you like?” again in the age of this realized universe, global warming might just stop in sympathy with my incredible joy. See, I was in Girl Guides for ten years, and I remember many a traumatic evening by the fire, with fingers still sticky from marshmallows- over-the-open-fire, when someone would drop the “L” bomb all over our preteen selves, releasing, as always, a tirade of “oh, he’s cute”, and “you would look so adorable together!” into our gooey faces like so many exploding s’mores. Back in elementary school, couples were like rare animal exhibits; they would be passed by on the playground with all the reverence of clergymen in the Sistine Chapel. If they held hands on the swings together, the news of it would spread like wildfire throughout the school, but by the time it had reached the seventh-graders’ ears, they would have broken up. Do I need to explain what this all has done to my adult dreams? Sob. That’s why I love Maru now. Preferably in a bowtie.

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