Dicks: John Criscitello at the Factory by Ellie Dicola

Dicks Dicks Dicks. So many dicks in my face. Brown dicks, white dicks. Six of them here, gangbanging the empty torso of a Northface jacket.

Normally, like while watching porn, I'd be offput about so many dicks in my face. Like, it's totally necessary to remind me how much you rule...I forgot.

But I like that these dicks are hard, and that they don't seem to like Northface. They circumvent the rhetorical altogether and just go for the arterial corridor. I hate being told what to think; luckily the dicks have no interest in my opinion. The more thrusting the gesture, the better. There's no time for wistful commemorations or hand-held there-there's.

'Why am I still so sad?' implores a triplet of health goths. Goths, or normcore? --Hell, I can't even tell anymore, and does it matter? And if you don't know, we won't save you...

Next, three more dicks spray yellow on so many healthy life choices and a fourth lies in wait. Someone needs to stage an intervention on all the healthy life choices going on. Just because I quit drinking doesn't mean I plan to give up my diet Coke and sugar cookies, after all. When Whole Paycheck Foods moves in, I am definitely out. Yes, I keep saying that as it gets worse and worse, but I really mean it this time!

Meanwhile, a 'legendary' dick casually leans into the wall, waiting to be hung.

But let's talk about the faggots. 'FAGGOTS!' screams a cruising bro out the car window. In what might be a Freudian slip of desire or an assertion of manliness, or both, his friend grabs his own crotch. It's all too real: I haven't seen it happen exactly like that yet, but I heard a rumor they're throwing a straight pride parade here later this summer. This, truly, is the question at the crux of all these dicks.

'I wish I could tell him that I love him.’