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Chris Connolly

Having drifted around Dublin for 24 years looking for someone to spoon, Connolly finally realised the depravity of all animate beings and settled on a multicoloured pinata named Dinky. When Dinky (pictured) was stabbed to death, Connolly (pictured also) retreated to his fortified loft in Dublin's city centre where he now lives as a recluse, communicating with the outside world only through his written words of gibberish.

His first collection of short stories, 'Every Day I Atrophy' (the SideCartel Books) is available now.

If you need to know more about Chris Connolly, he has an excellent and excellently informative website here chrisconnollywriter.com

contributions

Well, Who Would You Be? 04.28.2016
Until The Heat Leaves 01.28.2016
Hanging Tricksy 08.23.2013
Ants 07.23.2012
Q&A 07.15.2012
The German Monks 07.05.2012
Like the Eyes of a Distressed Cow 01.25.2011
The child must be taught a lesson 08.24.2010
Ten Dollar Trick 10.29.2008
Dog Stalker 08.16.2008
Get Off The Bus 08.08.2008
Hillary wants, more than anything, a tranny on Times Square 05.13.2008
Flying ashtrays, fighting dogs 05.08.2008
What's Not To Hate? 04.24.2008
Bernard's Warm Control 03.30.2008
I Can't Fit Into My Washing Machine 02.23.2008
Cocaine and Christmas Carols 02.02.2008
Menstruation is racist... period 01.31.2008
I Heart NY 01.12.2008
Everyday I Atrophy 01.01.2008

The Week in Review: Sept. 16-23
From the Moshpit #9: Whiter than White
Something Hrsta This Way Comes
Autumn is indeed the season of the witch, and Hrsta is the perfect manifestation to get the Phantasmagoria ball rolling.
The Late and Finally Great Elliott Smith
The Tracks of his Tears (whoever he might be)
Crushing Society Under Their Wheels: Vic Chesnutt and Robert Wyatt
Chesnutt and Wyatt share more than wheelchairs, funny voices and cult followings. They also share the title of being possibly the last great songwriters.
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