Booze, love, fancy photos and short stories about Generation End


At first, nothing worked with Candy. Funny texts didn’t work. Funny Facebook messages didn’t work. She’d be interested for a moment but then stop responding. Maybe she was too smart for me. Maybe I wasn’t that funny.

I’d never chased someone with a PhD before and something about it scared me. The more I thought about her and her accomplishments, the more awkward and tense I became whenever we spoke. One evening, after much dread, I finally decided to ask her to go to some jazz event with me.

“Sorry I’d love to, but I’m lecturing that evening.”

“How about another evening?”


I saw her again at an Easter dinner by the Eagle Street Pier. She was sitting with a bunch of girls, laughing about something, probably about how attractive and successful they were. I found a spare spot right next to her and sat down.

“Hi,” I said. I’d been drinking.


I noticed her camera on the table, picked it up and took a photo of her. I smiled but she didn’t.

She grabbed it back from me. “What are you doing?”

I looked around: everyone was staring straight at us, at me. “Fuck!” I stood up and stumbled away.

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