Marbles and Booze

November 27, 2011 § 3 Comments


Why is 3 a.m. always so full of memories that shouldn’t matter unless they’re part of the plot? I think movie directors who never explain why someone’s finger is missing, or introduce characters who have nothing to do with the story must have plenty of 3 a.m.s themselves, and they make choices based on a half dream logic, and I get it, but what I don’t get is why I need to recall a mean-ass dog giving birth and then eating her puppies, or the time when I was fucking around with a marble, and I put it up my butt and then I couldn’t find it again and I spent years thinking I had a marble lodged inside my guts.

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They Made Me Run Through Poop

November 21, 2011 § Leave a comment


You were a lousy mother, always leaving us with these people you called your “adopted” families, running off for weeks at a time. These people were just shit-bags you’d met over the years. These were carnies and truckers and folks who bred pitbulls. These were people who, without fail, always lived way the fuck out away from town, with land scattered with truck parts, just like you can see in the movies. These were boys with buzz cuts and girls with their names airbrushed onto shirts they’d gotten special made at the county fair. These were people who watched black and white televisions and had wood burning stoves. As it would happen, these people really fucking sucked. « Read the rest of this entry »

6:30 | I’m Eating With Your Cat

November 13, 2011 § Leave a comment


And we’re both only eating because we’re bored. I can tell that he’s bored a lot, too. Jesus fuck, your cat is going to die of fat, just like 67% of the people in this horrible state.

I came back here because you’re getting married.

Re-married. Married again. Do-over. Another shot.

I’m not here for your wedding, though. You and your extremely pleasant, wears-the-pants, list-making fiance are headed to an island where you’ll dress in the suit she picked out for you and you’ll feast on pigs and coconuts and probably go snorkeling. Enjoy the fuck out of that, because I’ll be back here watching your cat get food automatically dispensed in his bowl twice a day, which seem to be the only two times a day he gets up. Jail was like that, too. Meal time, mail time, and The Price Is Right were the only reasons to get out of bed.

Does your cat watch any television? I fucking forgot to ask you.

You people have a lot of food in your house in this suburb. You’ve got the real deal, name-brand shit. I’m stuffing Doritos in my face right now and eying up what you told me last night was your “dessert freezer”. I’ve counted 4 refrigerators and 2 freezers in your new house, and you have a television in every room. I’m pretty sure I know what your cat and I are going to be doing for the next 11 days.

What the fuck is this, my diary?

November 10, 2011 § Leave a comment


Unless I’m reading straight up erotica- some pussy tingling fantasy story of what never really happens in the doctor’s office because if it did there’d be lawsuits- unless I’m sitting down to read some wonderfully cooked up plot involving the mall, a van, and a lot of begging, I really don’t like reading about personal sexual encounters between two people.

That’s probably why I’m not prone to being very good at cyber sex, and why I don’t ask my friends for any details at all about their most recent fucking unless something funny happened. Funny sex stories I can hack. But the moment you talk about the way he was touching your pussy or the way she wrapped her hand under herself and around your cock while she was on top, you’ve made me want to wretch.

For this reason I spare the graphic details of my own sex life most of the time. « Read the rest of this entry »

You Should Write Your Memoirs

November 7, 2011 § Leave a comment


I once hooked up with a stranger at a bar, brought him home, lead him through my 6 bedroom Victorian house, past toys on the floor, past wedding pictures still on the wall, past the room where my burboun stinking husband snored, and up into what had become my bedroom.
My bedroom was the attic, beautiful sloped purple walls, 100 years old, a bathroom with a claw foot tub; this is the sort of place lesbian poet painters drink constant comment tea and laugh because they don’t have to do anything about the incoming wiry bits of hair on their chins.

You almost fucked an inflatable pig this weekend. « Read the rest of this entry »

No Fucking Happened

November 1, 2011 § 1 Comment


Just as I was about to suck it up and call on Sunglasses, the Jewish guy who works in television and has a coke habit, (who also happens to be extremely sexy and fun to look at) the gates of hell opened up and the blood came coursing out of me, like it was Ocean Spray Cranberry Cocktail.
I decided that the only thing more lame than uncharted dicking was stranger period sex. But I did take an extra long time in the shower washing my amazing period tits.

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