To my ears, these nice ladies had just chirped “Hey you know what the Sistine Chapel needs? Some tract lighting with pretty scarfs draped over the bulbs! Hey, has anyone ever petitioned Congress to update the Statue of Liberty’s outfit?”
If you’re in the Portland area, SO AM I, this Saturday at 2pm, Tigard Public Library. Gonna be doing some serious schooling, Wives.
By the end of Produce, my underpants had slid clear down my butt and hips. They came to a crumpled state of rest in the seat of my “joggers” (grey sweat pants with pineapples on them) and there they seemed content to stay. I tried, once, in the toilet paper, tampon and cold medicine aisle,…
Ah, he must have noticed the dust coating the…everything. And the torn shopping bag I’d used to try and hide how sticky my drink holder was had slipped. And he opened that drawer below the radio where I keep my filth. He ought not done that.
I sounded like Daffy Duck and Sylvester the Cat had a baby and it was on meth.
. I loved it. I hated it. It felt sick there and so special too. Like Nigger Ben Butte, all wrong, distasteful even, but sickly compelling in its defiance.
My next post was going to be a collection of sexy, vaguely homo-erotic (ok sometimes just flat out homoerotic) pictures of 19th century men that I’ve collected while finding images for my book. But hell, it’s the end of 2015. Maybe the best year of my life so far. I guess I should honor…