Fri­day nights had noth­ing to do with Times New Roman, besides the fact that the former was rendered from the lat­ter. Feel­ing a little hungry and a lot hor­rible, Times New Roman ordered some pizza.

“How large is your medium?” it asked.

“You see the semantic prob­lem with that ques­tion, right?” said Jules.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” said Times New Roman.

“I have an MFA in cre­at­ive writing.”

“Jesus.”

Jules received his MFA from Brown. The pizza received its sauce from Red. Fri­day nights were dif­fi­cult for Jules as well; all of his room­mates were cop­u­lat­ing and Jules had noth­ing but pi to top.

“I’m just giv­ing you a hard thyme,” said Jules. “The medium is 14″.”

“Funny how the inch is denoted by the double quote. Things could get con­fus­ing,” Times New Roman said.

“If only this con­ver­sa­tion were real,” Jules typed.

Jules’s bed­room walls did little but muffle the ostens­ible orgasm of some female in her early twen­ties. How sug­ary the bit­ter heart is. Through his boxer flap, Jules could see the tip of his penis, blind and absurd like a new­born alligator. He sighed, then again for good meas­ure. “Fam­ous writer,” he thought, high­lighted the entire doc­u­ment, changed the font to wing­dings, and quit without sav­ing because he had a real job.

Jimmy Chen lives in San Fran­cisco and works at a large unnamed insti­tu­tion. He main­tains a blog and archive of his writ­ing at the Embassy of Mis­guided Zen.