We are both from the same kind of towns. We both know the sound of swivel-head spray at midnight on a summer lawn. We both know the weak secrets of us.
They weren’t like dolls, because dolls had no feelings. Kids had feelings, just not any remotely related to yours.
His eyes had the ebb of his liver in them and he bore the air of a man who looks right at you and only sees the last of himself.
So, yes, I should have just surrendered, cinched the entitled scion her little pouch of entitlements, put in my calls to the name shufflers, done my duty. I thought about that moment later on. Maybe I got extratuned to the concept of bitchhood once I became Purdy’s, though I must confess I’ve always found such usage of the term for female dogs distasteful. My mother was a second-wave feminist. I wasn’t comfortable saying “cunt
The Brit’s eyes had this pucker of awful witness.
Yes, we could solve for why, but we could also eat another slice of coconut cake.
The place resembled a new model prison, or one that had achieved a provisional utopia after principled revolt, or maybe a homeless shelter for people with liberal arts degrees. The cages brought to mind those labs with their death-fuming vents near my college studio. These kids were part of some great experiment. It was maybe the same one in which I’d once been a subject. Unlike me, though, or the guinea pigs and hares, they were happy, or seemed happy, or were blogging about how they seemed happy.
Oh, do you, Milo? You’re so selfish. You don’t see the bigger picture.
I looked for Gary in all of the Gary places, but I was too early. These places were all haunted by the future of Gary.