All posts by D.S. West

D.S. West is a writer of words and a maker of various un-pretty things from Longmont, Colorado. West’s collection of mediocre, poorly edited short stories I Don’t Belong Here! is ninety-nine cents on Amazon. You’re encouraged leave negative reviews. Keep your money though—think of it as a sand mandala.

Posted On June 28, 2014By D.S. WestIn Advice For Men, Girlzone

Large Penises and Cherry Trees

Because I write for a website—this one—the process isn’t as simple as sitting down at a coffee shop with a fashionable scarf on and asking scone crumbs as they rain down my neck and chest,  “What shall I write about today?” I have your needs to consider. The writer’s supposed to give you words worth reading. You can think of me as your call girl. I’m not your only trick, I know that, but I want to make our time together worth your while. When I had the genius ideaRead More
For a while I’ve wanted to write about my experiences in strip clubs. I never got around to it. I was worried it would be preachy. Dumb. Boring. I requested guidance from amethyst I’d purchased from an Austin, Texas mineral shop. When the rock declined to tell me what to do, I got stoned and held a séance with dead white authors. Hemingway, the greatest of the sexually confused Modernists, appeared in a subliminal mushroom cloud the shape of two roosters crossed at the neck. E-Hem poked his ass outRead More
In the Todd Glass and Sarah Silverman episode of YouTube’s Getting Doug with High, Todd Glass decides to smoke as much marijuana as he can. “I never do this,” he says. Glass overdoes it, wearing his self-consciousness on his sleeve, tempting me to make a crack about ‘shattered glass’—something along those lines. Jokes like that make me feel like a schoolyard bully, like movie reviewers who use “bad” and “pretentious” because “It didn’t work for me” doesn’t come with an ego-kick. Benson and Silverman poke fun of Glass, who continuesRead More
Enclosure was made available April 8th, but I was able to hear it early because a satellite beamed it into my skull from outer space. The experimental satellite in question–not Valis but Sat-JF14–was deployed to transmit Frusciante’s twelfth full-length as it toured the planet. It sounded like an April Fool’s joke disguised as a marketing ploy. It wasn’t. Unless the satellite was  in my head all along, in which case I have to avoid a certain delusion-inducing Dick in the library fiction aisle. Fans and curious bored people downloaded aRead More