In my fifties, bare aesthetics will turn to hungry assault. I'll have less self-control, in proportion to attractiveness. At a salad bar just the other day, a German tourist near -ly brot me to my knees on the plastic runway protectin -g the rug. I was on my first beer, but I could have slain his frau and drug him home by the hair with a second m- ug. I vow to haunt art walks, retrospectives, book fairs a- nd lame conventioneers who are paid to stroll their carne between miracles of the marketplace and crudités variés.
Promo Script: Dr. Thong's 10-Minute Day, with No Workout
Peg just home from Pharmsupply Focus Group would squat and pee if you even touched her collar. We finally got it and threw it out. She seemed liberated. Our reign would be one of logic. At first a butter-soft Gucci leash gently looped behind the neck did the trick in that she limpingly obeyed as in mock Stations of the Cross. It was Pathetic.
Now all Syl needs is to loll the thing against her thigh and Peggy knows what it means. To bed. To your den. In a cave.
She'll be back to fully verbal soon, and on to childbearing. We feel she wants to whisk the ones she's got off to a cliff nest and wish them well. She must be stopped.
Last night's doggie-bag salmon with safflower mayo, squeezed lemon, romaine, salt, dill. Downed with a cold $5 sav-blanc. I got the wrong fork, I know!
2nd course: Reheated spinach linguini. It looks so yella cuz I'd added a ton of turmeric to the bottled pasta sauce along with ground sirloin, fennel, cayenne. Topped from a tiny bottle of Kraft parm from the AM/PM Mini-Mart.
All still welcome at the fortnightly Endangered Foods Summit and Pot-Luck. Mthyuh Preservation Society HQ, Ritual Death Salon, Partition IV. 1st and 3rd Wednesdays.
There were survivor barbecues while some of the neighbors walked in thirsty death circles. There'd been no news in weeks that anyone could get. That funny couple the chick with the spindly head and the albino, they showed up around then. She was telling him what to do but also worshiped him with fruits and song. He had a red afro.
Tri-Tip Toaster Oven Cookout
bottle of chili sauce 1 lb meat chunks Worcestershire 1T many bay leaves, whole child's fist full of cloves head of garlic: teeth are cut free but unpeeled extra-thick foil
at least 1 hr @ 300 better yet, crok-pot it with a whole pork roast and more of everything, 4hrs high squish the garlic teeth onto the roll before the meat do not use the bay leaves out of one of those xmas laurel wreathes mush the roast into the sauce with a potato masher whatever right there in the crock leaving a variety of chunk sizes for slopping into fresh bread. Makes you want zin on ice.
Boy, child, lord, what am I? I ask as the world, not myself. Sneaky? Guardian? Lovely? Yor expectations go this far. Ambling, I may swing my fists. Will you be there? Nipple, chest, font. Ship. Net. Ribs. Together, we're a knot. Two are untrustworthy. I'm on my own now. I'm seeking another body.
If you can remember what it was like to be an organ in a wurl without bone around you; If you can imagine your own medium, what you breathe so to speak, doubling as armor; If you could see in every direction only by manipulating basically the optic nerve alone; You would begin to resemble our homegrrl, Amygdala Jones.
You might feel bottom-heavy, like you want to scream, "Don't pick me up!" when he greets you at the airport, knowing yud break. And it's hard to move 2 pair of lobster claws across a polished marble floor with so much weight. Some would call you paranoid. But you're misunderstood.
When yor skin is soft as a toad, the body a shapeshifting load, and your interface, peeled grapes on noodle stilts, is all over the place, you begin to crave solids. Like vasa deferentia, you may only be able to make a difference with a second opinion and the help of additional fluids.
Cumulative parables such as these beg the wisdom of unconditional evolutionary confidence. Amygdala Jones couldn't help putting feelings at the top of her tdhu list. When you haven't any lids and there isn't a drink in sight, one can only hope that tears are general throughout the hood.
Fragment, "To the Student" Sin-Gaberra Ms., shards 6a-d. Ass-assination of Amygdala Jones: Princess or Goddess, It's the Same
They rip off your face and you hemorrhage the slime what kept you alive. Phages sweep by and recognize exactly where you've folded the antennae. Apoptosis is even more horrifying because everyone just stands by smiling. They think they blebbostatins, panaceas, can contain yor diasporic flotsam.
Skin and Clay walk down to the corner, where there's a street light. Maybe something's happening there. Skin: Looks like it's just you and me. Clay: It doesn't matter. I can't see.
Skin and Clay goindu a morgue. Clay: I am the flowerpot he left behind, spun by the contours of his hands. Skin: I am his orphaned leather backpack, flesh colored, ink stained. Skin and Clay [together]: Are we museums or are we raw materials?
Clay and Skin weigh time against moral capacity. Skin: I'm the one who can go bad. Clay: It takes me 10,000 years to neutralize yor shit.
Skin and Clay go to church. Clay: He who's got a blessing's got a curse. Skin: An both those guys are better off than you.
Clay and Skin decide to commit a sin. Clay: What do we do first? Skin: Nothin. Clay: I am doomed.
Skin and Clay become filthy lovers. Skin: You are a little gritty. Clay: That's hot, Skin.
Hey youse feeling ennui or tragedy but might be wearing developmental pasties on yor nips, Spike TV, mirrored embroidered Rajistanic bedspreads. Yo pet adopted greyhound is running circles around dogfarts in his sleep man. This is the end of his line. Do you feel the wind? Put yor tops away boy. This street is cleared for wide tires and vice sweep only sweetlips. Do you hear his epileptic claws scratching your plastic office chair pad? Here's where you trade mainlined Scottish peat burns for a frozen Mudslide: time for a Taco Party, playboy.
Ken's rash note to Mike after the final swimming blog entry
Was that her under the avalanche of gratuitous accessories and empties at the sidewalk cafe? Did she never become that buck-tooth, saddle-shod shooter from whom we all long to flee? Was her rearing not overdetermined by scripture, her apocalyptic destiny given us to slay? With safety in righteousness, patrimonial soil, swarm this story for your spleen, worker bee!
She shall be known for whatever it is you call a curse which is a name: Malediction? Since she is technically a goddess, leadership nomenclature splatters out of her everywhere: "I hold out both my hands, like giving anal polyps: fingerless but ready, fertile, present. "Imminent, I hold you in my balls, which are fists. My arms, living tubes, can be dicks to you.
Sighing, Peg took off her ridiculously large and fake sunglasses frames, palm rolling a sweaty 7/7 across her forehead for clarity. Listen to that clinking. Sears is going to be here any minute. Shd I try and cram in a nap and say I'm just groggy from dreamin? Or might I go ahead and ride this current/wave of Violade like a Mayfair lady in a white sateen and foxtail cape?
Partial Ch. 4 and notes. Sin-Gaberra Ms., shard 4c. Ass-assination of Amygdala Jones: Princess or Goddess, It's the Same
iout9p2q83751983ngvo3inuv[03947v6n;oqwprettyieut098pictures34576n[qvuglyo3i9words4vun'qoi3nuy9p2q83751my_decaYcreates_homes_for_otheRcreatures_+WE CAN'T HELP LOVING AND WE CAN'T STOP