White Buffalo
July 3, 2025
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I knew this guy once. Paul. A real dreamer, the kind of guy America loves to build up just so it can have the pleasure of watching him fall. He
Explore raw, unfiltered reflections on life, loss, identity, and love. From monogamy to madness, these real-life stories pull no punches — and they just might hit home.
I knew this guy once. Paul. A real dreamer, the kind of guy America loves to build up just so it can have the pleasure of watching him fall. He
So, you’ve been reading these stories, these dispatches from the gutter. And maybe you’re getting tired. Maybe you’re sitting there in your comfortable chair, your drink sweating on a coaster,
My Grandpa Johnny, he looked like that guy from I Love Lucy. Desi Arnaz. Had that same thin mustache, right above the lip, always perfect. He was a handsome man,
I was out there in paradise, spending money like an idiot, eating and drinking, my only real expense being a car. I’d sold my Passat back in the desert
Out of all the places I’ve lived and visited, I need to share this with you: Tucson is, by far, the most boring goddamn shithole on the face of the
We lived in a ranch house that was rotting from the inside out. The second bathroom, the one closest to our rooms, was broken. It served as a monument, holding
My Grandpa Nick, my stepdad’s dad, he was an old Italian landfill prospector. I’m not clear on how he made all his money, but I know how he got his
My grandfather got me a slingshot, and I, being the kind of kid I was, immediately set about improving the ammunition. I’d ask for money for the grocery store, head
I proved my incompetence early. At eleven years old, I was already a liability. Tried to warm up my little brother on a mattress with a goddamn hair dryer, left
My Uncle Brown, he was the white boy who married my grandmother’s sister—another one of those Spaniards with light skin and eyes like goddamn jewels. A beautiful woman. He married
My experience with the dating market in Hawaii was simple: women were selling themselves for rent. That was the game. You’d go on a date, maybe four. I’d drop a
This was in Bend, Oregon. After twenty years of a loveless, sexless marriage—a slow death by a thousand paper cuts—I was finally off the leash. Officially Mr. Playboy, enjoying the
