It isn’t our fault that we’re beautiful and in love, and that our followers are lonely losers who can’t get a date.

Photo by Brooke Cagle on Unsplash

This morning, Jeremy and I were informed that our Instagram accounts had been suspended indefinitely. My initial reaction? Confusion. What could we have done? It clearly wasn’t an issue of nudity — I wear more layers than Billie Eilish.

What else could it be? I thought. Did one of us use a racial slur, unknowingly? It was only when we scrolled down further that we saw the true reason for the punishment:

“The accounts of Nicole and Jeremy have been suspended indefinitely due to the constant and intolerable public displays of affection.”

I couldn’t believe it. I mean, yeah, Jeremy…


What if there was a service out there that allowed you to get the haircut of your dreams…as you dream?

Photo by Adam Winger on Unsplash

Are you that person who loves going into the salon to get a haircut? To you, it’s like a relaxing day at the spa. You can’t wait to tell your stylist, Brittany, all about that awkward Tinder date you went on last week. Does that sound like I’m describing you? Well, then congratulations — you’re a beautiful social butterfly.

But what about the rest of us? The introverts, the hermits, the run-of-the-mill weirdos. The ones that loathe the process of getting our hair cut enough to contemplate shaving our heads bald. What are we supposed to do? …


Contrary to her prediction, I watch that fireworks video all the time.

Photo by Spenser Sembrat on Unsplash

I’m watching that fireworks video I filmed with my iPhone on July 4th of last year. The finale is coming up. This is the part where my girlfriend, Daisy, says something about the senselessness of filming such things.

“Put your phone away, Seth. You’ll never watch that damn thing as long as you live.”

I laughed. Then I bet her a kiss that she was wrong.

“You’re on,” she said.

Now, as I watch the fireworks go off for the millionth time, it’s clear that Daisy lost the bet. …


“The way you speak to me — it isn’t the way a wife should speak to her husband.”

Digital Art by Author

Peter and his wife, Marcy, are on a heart-shaped hotel bed, staring up at their naked bodies through the mirror on the ceiling.

“Well, that was nice,” he says. “Aren’t you glad you listened to me for a change?”

She smiles.

“You were right, sweetheart. I don’t know why I ever question you.”

He takes her hand and kisses it.

“What’s gotten into you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been awful sweet tonight,” he says. “You remind me of a woman I met on a subway once…about ten years ago.”

She giggles.

“That was me, wasn’t it?”

“Sure was. But…


As far as the general public is concerned, whether you like it or not, you’re the asshole.

Photo by Gabriel Gurrola on Unsplash

A group of sad-looking men and women are gathered together in a school classroom at night.

The chalkboard reads:

Support group for exes of singer-songwriters.

The counselor stands at the front of the class.

“What do all of you have in common?” he says. “You chose to date famous singer-songwriters. As you know, that choice comes with certain risks. If the relationship doesn’t pan out, they’re inevitably going to write songs about it. About you. And no matter how it went down, you’re guaranteed to come off looking like a John Mayer-level douche. …


This is the Island of Made-up Boyfriends — the home to fictitious men, created by women, in order to avoid giving out their phone numbers.

Photo by Artak Petrosyan on Unsplash

A group of men are toasting marshmallows by a fire when they notice a purple cloud of mist in the distance. Moments later, the mist fades to reveal a naked man.

“Wh… wh… where am I?” he says.

A tall Spaniard, the leader of the group, stands up.

“Welcome,” he says. “Put on a towel and join us. I’ll explain everything.”

Minutes later, the new arrival joins the group.

“How strange,” he says to the others. “I don’t remember much of anything, except that my name is Laszlo.”

The Spaniard chuckles.

“I’m Alejandro. Don’t be frightened. You’re more fortunate than…


Photo by Spencer Backman on Unsplash

“How do you feel, Sharon?” Dr. Griffin asks me.

It’s my first day back at therapy since the funeral last week. I feel pressure to tell him what he expects to hear — that I’m inconsolable, that I’m hanging on by a thread.

“Honestly, I haven’t felt anything. Maybe a little anxiety.”

“What is it you’re anxious about?”

“My lack of despair, for one thing. I should be devastated right now, shouldn’t I?

“Do you wish you were?”

“Well, my dad just died and I haven’t even cried. Last night, I tried putting his favorite song on, staring at a…


Photo by Omid Armin on Unsplash

Dear Abigail,

This is your sister, Cindy, writing to you from the next room over. You may or may not have noticed that your pink denim jacket with sunflowers on it has recently gone missing — a great loss, indeed. Now, I believe I can be of some assistance in helping you to locate the item, seeing as I am the one who stole it.

(Before you come storming in here, I urge you to keep reading.)

Abigail, you and I have known each other for six long years. In all that time, have you ever known me to be…

David Farr

I write short stories

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store