I don't like the crowds.
Or, rather, I don't like having constant crowds. Or constant clouds.
That's not true, I like the clouds. Just not the crowds. Because they're everywhere. You can't escape them no matter where. You. Go.
And it sucks.
I'm back to manufactured cigarettes 'cause I'm lazy and Drum kinda tastes like shit.
Although "Camel Blues" aren't that much better.
England is great, but I miss Camel Lights. I miss my friends. I miss friends in general. I miss my dog. I miss my dog's right ear, which apparently got amputated while I was away because she had cancer on it.
So she's a beagle. With one flappy ear and one...Not flappy ear.
I have £16.25 tickets to see the inside of Buckingham Palace today at 3:45. But I'm not going to go. Instead, I'm going to see Coco Before Chanel and then the Cambridge Shakespeare Festival's production of Romeo and Juliet.
There was a massive birthday party last night and we all took to the streets of London like fucking rats on a ship and I didn't get back into Cambridge until 8 this morning. I haven't slept yet. I couldn't sleep - I didn't want to mess up my sleep cycle, as I do so often at college, plus I had to go to the library to work on this 15-page research paper that's due in four days.
Still don't have a thesis yet, by the way.
I'm too tired to care.
I've got some more posts coming up. But right now, it's lunch, movie, play, hibernate.
I miss you,
P. I. Staker
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
The Night I Spent in King's Cross
Ten minutes into the second half, I was crying again. The show was that good. It was sort of pathetic, really. Peter Pan. Fucking Peter Pan.
The tears kept coming during the entire second half, which really wasn't good, because I needed to have my wits about me. We were about to make an epic run throughout central London. You see, Peter Pan was ending at around 10 P.M. The last train to Cambridge left King's Cross at 12:07 A.M.
So that gave us roughly two hours in which we had to...
1 - Get to the nearest underground to catch the tube to Victoria Station
2 - Go to Victoria Station to pick up Becca's luggage. (Becca? Kate's little sister, who came into England during our week off to visit)
3 - Hop on the underground again to get to Kings Cross, where we would hopefully arrive in time to catch the last train home.
Now I know this list isn't very long, but London's a big place, and Kensington Gardens (which is where we saw Peter Pan, and, appropriately enough, where J.M. Barrie found the inspiration to write Peter Pan in the first place) is very far away from everything, really. Everything is far away from everything. In short, we were cutting it close.
So, we book it out of Peter Pan, and start running towards the underground. After about a minute of this, we tire and start speed walking. After about five minutes of this, we realize we need to book it and start running again. Repeat X2.
We get to the underground station, swipe our cards in, get down to the platform and...lo and behold the circle line isn't making the normal stop at Victoria Station.
So, we book it back up the 72 stairs to the entrance (And, yes, there was a sign that said "72 stairs to be used in the case of an emergency", which I reckon this was) and go out through in the "in" door. Like the reverse of that Prince song.
At any rate, we're standing on the side of the road, outside of the underground, at 10:20 at night, trying really hard to hail a cab.
Nothing.
So Kate stalks over to the closest restaurant, and, very discreetly, asks a waiter for the phone number of a cab company.
He bitchily informs Kate that hotel is just around the corner, where a consierge could point us in the right direction.
Run, speed walk, run, speed walk, 6 city blocks in total I'd reckon, all the way to this hotel.
Where no one spoke English.
So Kate's inside, trying to translate "taxi" into Spanish, when I manage to hail a cab on the side of the street with Becca. Becca runs off to get Kate, and away we go to Victoria Station.
The cab cost £17. But, since we were in a hurry, Kate handed the guy a £20 note and said "keep the change" which I thought was really cool, kinda like getting into a cab and saying "I'm trying to get to the United Nations. I'm being followed. Can you do anything about it?"
Anyway.
We get to Victoria Station, it's about 11:15 P.M. Kate and Becca run off to get Becca's luggage, while I stay behind to smoke a cig/make sure the tube hasn't stopped running for the night.
Lucky for us, it hasn't.
20 minutes on the Picadilly Line late, and we're at King's Cross.
All the while, a man's whistling that song from the Phantom of the Opera that's actually pretty cool. Kinda soft and lilting, and I think the lyrics go something like "softly, sweetly, barely even whispering..." or something like that.
At any rate, here's where I would make up some elaborate tale about how we missed the train and had to spend the night in King's Cross with that old dude singing Phantom of the Opera. But I'm too tired for lies and creativity, so the truth will have to do.
We made it, just fine.
P. I. Staker
The tears kept coming during the entire second half, which really wasn't good, because I needed to have my wits about me. We were about to make an epic run throughout central London. You see, Peter Pan was ending at around 10 P.M. The last train to Cambridge left King's Cross at 12:07 A.M.
So that gave us roughly two hours in which we had to...
1 - Get to the nearest underground to catch the tube to Victoria Station
2 - Go to Victoria Station to pick up Becca's luggage. (Becca? Kate's little sister, who came into England during our week off to visit)
3 - Hop on the underground again to get to Kings Cross, where we would hopefully arrive in time to catch the last train home.
Now I know this list isn't very long, but London's a big place, and Kensington Gardens (which is where we saw Peter Pan, and, appropriately enough, where J.M. Barrie found the inspiration to write Peter Pan in the first place) is very far away from everything, really. Everything is far away from everything. In short, we were cutting it close.
So, we book it out of Peter Pan, and start running towards the underground. After about a minute of this, we tire and start speed walking. After about five minutes of this, we realize we need to book it and start running again. Repeat X2.
We get to the underground station, swipe our cards in, get down to the platform and...lo and behold the circle line isn't making the normal stop at Victoria Station.
So, we book it back up the 72 stairs to the entrance (And, yes, there was a sign that said "72 stairs to be used in the case of an emergency", which I reckon this was) and go out through in the "in" door. Like the reverse of that Prince song.
At any rate, we're standing on the side of the road, outside of the underground, at 10:20 at night, trying really hard to hail a cab.
Nothing.
So Kate stalks over to the closest restaurant, and, very discreetly, asks a waiter for the phone number of a cab company.
He bitchily informs Kate that hotel is just around the corner, where a consierge could point us in the right direction.
Run, speed walk, run, speed walk, 6 city blocks in total I'd reckon, all the way to this hotel.
Where no one spoke English.
So Kate's inside, trying to translate "taxi" into Spanish, when I manage to hail a cab on the side of the street with Becca. Becca runs off to get Kate, and away we go to Victoria Station.
The cab cost £17. But, since we were in a hurry, Kate handed the guy a £20 note and said "keep the change" which I thought was really cool, kinda like getting into a cab and saying "I'm trying to get to the United Nations. I'm being followed. Can you do anything about it?"
Anyway.
We get to Victoria Station, it's about 11:15 P.M. Kate and Becca run off to get Becca's luggage, while I stay behind to smoke a cig/make sure the tube hasn't stopped running for the night.
Lucky for us, it hasn't.
20 minutes on the Picadilly Line late, and we're at King's Cross.
All the while, a man's whistling that song from the Phantom of the Opera that's actually pretty cool. Kinda soft and lilting, and I think the lyrics go something like "softly, sweetly, barely even whispering..." or something like that.
At any rate, here's where I would make up some elaborate tale about how we missed the train and had to spend the night in King's Cross with that old dude singing Phantom of the Opera. But I'm too tired for lies and creativity, so the truth will have to do.
We made it, just fine.
P. I. Staker
The Most Stupid Thing I Ever Did...
...Was try to hike a mountain, by myself, in the rain, wearing sandals.
Let me expound.
So I'm in Edinburgh, Scotland, with Billy and Negeen, and we decide to climb up this nature path/huge-ass hill that gives you a 360 degree view of Edinburgh and the surrounding countryside. It's call Holyrood Park. Billy goes into warp speed, and Negeen goes into really really slow speed, and I'm somewhere in the middle, walking up this hill. Well, the hill takes you up high and then spits you out at the bottom again, and at the bottom of this hill is a rocky mountain. I get to the bottom of the rocky mountain, Billy's nowhere in sight, and Negeen's with me. This rocky mountain had two sets of steep stairs you could follow up to the top.
Steep? These fuckers were ridiculous. I don't know if there's a word for these kind of stairs, but it was as if someone carved 2-foot high stairs into the side of the mountain, and then put a piece of wood on the top of each stair where you could step to climb.
I decided I would do this, and picked what I thought was the easiest path.
I picked the hardest path.
There were about a hundred of these 2-foot high stairs, leading up to a ledge. I shimmied across the ledge, to continue up, when I came across a part of the mountain that had no stairs, rather a steep, muddy looking bend in the side of the mountain.
By now, I could see the top.
It was getting colder the higher I got up, and the wind had picked up as well. It was obviously about to storm. But I came this far, hamstrings and upper thighs burning, thank you, so I wasn't about to turn back just because the stairs ended. I thought, I will probably never get to do this ever again. Ever. So I better fucking do this now.
So I take my first step, and make it almost to the top. The walking up wasn't that difficult, but when I got near the top I saw what I couldn't see earlier - there's no easy way to pull yourself up to the top of the mountain, as the top of this craggy-valley thing had a lip jutting out about a foot. So I looked down.
I shouldn't have looked down. My heart started pumping - faster than it already was - my breathing was already shallow due to the altitude, and, to add a little drama to things, the wind chose that point to pick up speed, and the rain began. The rain was really, really cold.
I thought, my God, I'm going to die. I'm going to die right here. I'm alone, I'm wearing sandals, I'm carrying a purse for fuck's sake, and I'm going to die. So I started giving myself an oral pep talk.
"You can do this, Nina. You got this, one foot in front of the other, just go down the mountain, go to the bottom, you got this, Nina..."
I didn't got this. I started to slip. Then I started to pray. Again, orally.
"Please, God, please let me live. Please God, please let me live. Just let me get down the side of this mountain thing. Please!"
I'm talking to myself. I'm sitting on my butt, trying to slide down this crag of the mountain, while not tearing my jeans, because if I die, no way will it be with a gaping hole in the pants of my jeans, and if I make it, no way will I walk the 2 miles back to the hostel with a gaping hole in the pants of my jeans.
I get down the mountain crag, take a sigh, and thank God for not letting me fall on the now rain-slicked rocks.
The next step was also difficult - getting down those 2-foot high stairs.
They're so high, I can't really step down. I have to hop.
So I'm hopping down the side of this mountain, and every hop has a "Thank you" or a "God" or a "for letting me" or a "live" attached to it.
And that's how I made it down the mountain.
Next up - the fictitious story of how I spent the night in a train station.
P. I. Staker
Let me expound.
So I'm in Edinburgh, Scotland, with Billy and Negeen, and we decide to climb up this nature path/huge-ass hill that gives you a 360 degree view of Edinburgh and the surrounding countryside. It's call Holyrood Park. Billy goes into warp speed, and Negeen goes into really really slow speed, and I'm somewhere in the middle, walking up this hill. Well, the hill takes you up high and then spits you out at the bottom again, and at the bottom of this hill is a rocky mountain. I get to the bottom of the rocky mountain, Billy's nowhere in sight, and Negeen's with me. This rocky mountain had two sets of steep stairs you could follow up to the top.
Steep? These fuckers were ridiculous. I don't know if there's a word for these kind of stairs, but it was as if someone carved 2-foot high stairs into the side of the mountain, and then put a piece of wood on the top of each stair where you could step to climb.
I decided I would do this, and picked what I thought was the easiest path.
I picked the hardest path.
There were about a hundred of these 2-foot high stairs, leading up to a ledge. I shimmied across the ledge, to continue up, when I came across a part of the mountain that had no stairs, rather a steep, muddy looking bend in the side of the mountain.
By now, I could see the top.
It was getting colder the higher I got up, and the wind had picked up as well. It was obviously about to storm. But I came this far, hamstrings and upper thighs burning, thank you, so I wasn't about to turn back just because the stairs ended. I thought, I will probably never get to do this ever again. Ever. So I better fucking do this now.
So I take my first step, and make it almost to the top. The walking up wasn't that difficult, but when I got near the top I saw what I couldn't see earlier - there's no easy way to pull yourself up to the top of the mountain, as the top of this craggy-valley thing had a lip jutting out about a foot. So I looked down.
I shouldn't have looked down. My heart started pumping - faster than it already was - my breathing was already shallow due to the altitude, and, to add a little drama to things, the wind chose that point to pick up speed, and the rain began. The rain was really, really cold.
I thought, my God, I'm going to die. I'm going to die right here. I'm alone, I'm wearing sandals, I'm carrying a purse for fuck's sake, and I'm going to die. So I started giving myself an oral pep talk.
"You can do this, Nina. You got this, one foot in front of the other, just go down the mountain, go to the bottom, you got this, Nina..."
I didn't got this. I started to slip. Then I started to pray. Again, orally.
"Please, God, please let me live. Please God, please let me live. Just let me get down the side of this mountain thing. Please!"
I'm talking to myself. I'm sitting on my butt, trying to slide down this crag of the mountain, while not tearing my jeans, because if I die, no way will it be with a gaping hole in the pants of my jeans, and if I make it, no way will I walk the 2 miles back to the hostel with a gaping hole in the pants of my jeans.
I get down the mountain crag, take a sigh, and thank God for not letting me fall on the now rain-slicked rocks.
The next step was also difficult - getting down those 2-foot high stairs.
They're so high, I can't really step down. I have to hop.
So I'm hopping down the side of this mountain, and every hop has a "Thank you" or a "God" or a "for letting me" or a "live" attached to it.
And that's how I made it down the mountain.
Next up - the fictitious story of how I spent the night in a train station.
P. I. Staker
Coincidence?
I've got much to say, so I might as well get down to it.
First of all - let me tell you a little bit about the past few hours.
So, not much is going on here in Cambridge, it's the last Saturday of our week off, and some people are still gone, others sleeping for as long as possible, still others punting. I decided to go see a movie. I just saw Moon, with Sam Rockwell, and at around the middle of the film I had this terrible feeling that I was very suddenly and unexpectedly going to die and go to hell.
I know, right? Terrible. Probably a combination of the sci-fi thriller I was watching, the fact that I was watching it alone, and the residual side effects of the book I spent all afternoon reading. (The book, Haunted, pretty much gives away the entire feeling of the book in it's title. It's fucking scary as shit, and all about death.)
At any rate, I left the movie feeling pretty weird, and I'm thinking, damn, I'm gonna call my dad 'cause I know he'll make me feel better. Well, I'll be damned if I don't have that thought, and then get a voicemail from him a minute later.
So that was pretty weird.
Now, this next part's gonna need a little backstory. The first week I was here, I was walking to Sainsbury's with Billy, when this guy walks up to me asking for 90 pence to catch a busride home. I didn't give him the money, and immediately felt guilty, because - come on. It was 90 pence. I could have given him a pound and been fine. He didn't look homeless, he just looked sad. But I didn't give it to him.
Well, after I talked with my dad for a spell, up walks the same guy. Asking for 90 pence to catch a busride home. Just like the last time. I figured I'd redeem myself, and gave him a pound. He immediately went into this story about how his friend was supposed to pick him up, but then he couldn't, and the 90 pence guy didn't have any money for the bus because he bought a can of coke.
I just looked at him and said, you've asked me this before.
Get your shit together.
Moving on.
Did you know you can bring matches onto an airplane, but not your favorite organic toothpaste that's only made and sold in America?
Neither did I!
Moving on.
When I landed in Dublin, Ireland, I looked out of the window in the airplane and saw a rainbow. Not kidding. Hours after that, I saw a double-banded rainbow. The next day, in the Gravity Bar of the Guinness Factory, I see a fourth rainbow, this one stretching in a perfect arch across the city.
Moving on.
P. I. Staker
First of all - let me tell you a little bit about the past few hours.
So, not much is going on here in Cambridge, it's the last Saturday of our week off, and some people are still gone, others sleeping for as long as possible, still others punting. I decided to go see a movie. I just saw Moon, with Sam Rockwell, and at around the middle of the film I had this terrible feeling that I was very suddenly and unexpectedly going to die and go to hell.
I know, right? Terrible. Probably a combination of the sci-fi thriller I was watching, the fact that I was watching it alone, and the residual side effects of the book I spent all afternoon reading. (The book, Haunted, pretty much gives away the entire feeling of the book in it's title. It's fucking scary as shit, and all about death.)
At any rate, I left the movie feeling pretty weird, and I'm thinking, damn, I'm gonna call my dad 'cause I know he'll make me feel better. Well, I'll be damned if I don't have that thought, and then get a voicemail from him a minute later.
So that was pretty weird.
Now, this next part's gonna need a little backstory. The first week I was here, I was walking to Sainsbury's with Billy, when this guy walks up to me asking for 90 pence to catch a busride home. I didn't give him the money, and immediately felt guilty, because - come on. It was 90 pence. I could have given him a pound and been fine. He didn't look homeless, he just looked sad. But I didn't give it to him.
Well, after I talked with my dad for a spell, up walks the same guy. Asking for 90 pence to catch a busride home. Just like the last time. I figured I'd redeem myself, and gave him a pound. He immediately went into this story about how his friend was supposed to pick him up, but then he couldn't, and the 90 pence guy didn't have any money for the bus because he bought a can of coke.
I just looked at him and said, you've asked me this before.
Get your shit together.
Moving on.
Did you know you can bring matches onto an airplane, but not your favorite organic toothpaste that's only made and sold in America?
Neither did I!
Moving on.
When I landed in Dublin, Ireland, I looked out of the window in the airplane and saw a rainbow. Not kidding. Hours after that, I saw a double-banded rainbow. The next day, in the Gravity Bar of the Guinness Factory, I see a fourth rainbow, this one stretching in a perfect arch across the city.
Moving on.
P. I. Staker
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
T.G.I Want CHILLI'S
Just in case anyone was seriously concerned - the courrier ended up costing me £12.80. Amazing student discount.
So. Chilli's sucks. This is nothing new. Their food sucks, the decorations suck, the waitors' uniforms suck...period.
And yet, I love Chilli's. I love it because English food isn't so hot - trying to pick out something to eat can take me up to 20 minutes, just because they always manage to take a really good dish and then throw in some random shit like vinegar to fuck it all up.
Josh described Chilli's as the brainchild of a bunch of high people, who just thought of all the food they would love to munch out on. I can see it now. "Dude...Endless chips. And an ear of corn should come with EVERY dish..."
Chilli's is not fine dining, goddamnit, but it's home, and when I saw that there was a Chilli's 15 minutes up the road from our house, my first thought was blended margaritas.
Mmmm blended margaritas. Mmmm ICE.
You cannot get ice anywhere. I was sent out to the convenience store to pick up some ice for gin and vodka night, and when I walked in and asked about it, the man looked at me apologetically and said, "No. I don't have any ice. Sometimes I get it, and when I do I'll let you know."
Ice is a fucking precious commodity here. Which normally would be fine - back home I always order my drinks without ice, because the drinks are always cold without ice. Nothing in England is cold without ice. Everything is tepid, lukewarm...pick your gross adjective.
Point is, when I saw the Chilli's ad, the first thing that caught my eye was the giant icy margarita. They have icy, blended margaritas at Chilli's. They have endless chips and corn with almost every meal.
The ferver spread quickly. First to fall was Josh, which was to be expected. Then I snagged Kate Kelly, and finally Billy and Negeen. The rest of the group didn't really get the joke or the enthusiasm. They kept on trying to tell us that Chilli's sucked. Yeah. I know. That's the point.
So the five of us set off on our pilgrimage to Chilli's, singing that babyback ribs song all the way.
We get to the mall. We wander, in search of Chilli's. We come across a...a...a...what's that I see? The striped awning! Mecca! The promised land! CHILLI'S! The huge glass windows, the tex-mex tables with the tiles in the center, the wooden chairs that always feel a little greasy to the touch...are on top of the tex-mex tables with the tile in the center?
...the fuck?
They had closed down. The map we had, that proudly displayed the Chilli's insignia in the bottom right corner, was from 2008. They had shut down June 17, 2009. Ten days before we arrived in Cambridge.
Hopes immediately dashed, we were sulking outside the closed restaurant when up walked a brit with a tongue piercing and a suit on. Kate Kelly made friends with him, and asked where we could get some margaritas.
He named a place, and we went in search of the empty mall for the Great White Hope of margaritas. What we found was another closed restaurant, with holes in the walls.
Cambridge just can't sustain a margarita drinking population, much to our dismay. We ended up going over to the restaurant where we had eaten the two previous nights, because all of their food is under £5, and they have this really good pitcher special called the Godfather, which is pepsi, jack daniels, and disarono amaretto.
But still. I wasn't able to get a margarita until I went to Edinburgh.
Cheers,
P. I. Staker
So. Chilli's sucks. This is nothing new. Their food sucks, the decorations suck, the waitors' uniforms suck...period.
And yet, I love Chilli's. I love it because English food isn't so hot - trying to pick out something to eat can take me up to 20 minutes, just because they always manage to take a really good dish and then throw in some random shit like vinegar to fuck it all up.
Josh described Chilli's as the brainchild of a bunch of high people, who just thought of all the food they would love to munch out on. I can see it now. "Dude...Endless chips. And an ear of corn should come with EVERY dish..."
Chilli's is not fine dining, goddamnit, but it's home, and when I saw that there was a Chilli's 15 minutes up the road from our house, my first thought was blended margaritas.
Mmmm blended margaritas. Mmmm ICE.
You cannot get ice anywhere. I was sent out to the convenience store to pick up some ice for gin and vodka night, and when I walked in and asked about it, the man looked at me apologetically and said, "No. I don't have any ice. Sometimes I get it, and when I do I'll let you know."
Ice is a fucking precious commodity here. Which normally would be fine - back home I always order my drinks without ice, because the drinks are always cold without ice. Nothing in England is cold without ice. Everything is tepid, lukewarm...pick your gross adjective.
Point is, when I saw the Chilli's ad, the first thing that caught my eye was the giant icy margarita. They have icy, blended margaritas at Chilli's. They have endless chips and corn with almost every meal.
The ferver spread quickly. First to fall was Josh, which was to be expected. Then I snagged Kate Kelly, and finally Billy and Negeen. The rest of the group didn't really get the joke or the enthusiasm. They kept on trying to tell us that Chilli's sucked. Yeah. I know. That's the point.
So the five of us set off on our pilgrimage to Chilli's, singing that babyback ribs song all the way.
We get to the mall. We wander, in search of Chilli's. We come across a...a...a...what's that I see? The striped awning! Mecca! The promised land! CHILLI'S! The huge glass windows, the tex-mex tables with the tiles in the center, the wooden chairs that always feel a little greasy to the touch...are on top of the tex-mex tables with the tile in the center?
...the fuck?
They had closed down. The map we had, that proudly displayed the Chilli's insignia in the bottom right corner, was from 2008. They had shut down June 17, 2009. Ten days before we arrived in Cambridge.
Hopes immediately dashed, we were sulking outside the closed restaurant when up walked a brit with a tongue piercing and a suit on. Kate Kelly made friends with him, and asked where we could get some margaritas.
He named a place, and we went in search of the empty mall for the Great White Hope of margaritas. What we found was another closed restaurant, with holes in the walls.
Cambridge just can't sustain a margarita drinking population, much to our dismay. We ended up going over to the restaurant where we had eaten the two previous nights, because all of their food is under £5, and they have this really good pitcher special called the Godfather, which is pepsi, jack daniels, and disarono amaretto.
But still. I wasn't able to get a margarita until I went to Edinburgh.
Cheers,
P. I. Staker
Thursday, July 16, 2009
White Winter Hymnal
You know that game where you write a line of a poem and then the next person writes the next line of the poem, and so on and so forth until you get to the end of the paper?
Well we played that drunk. And this is what we came up with.
Ahem.
"I had some wine after I had sex with him
you know, after the fact, after the fact - it wasn't
exactly true, any of it: the sex, the condom, the baby afterwards.
If she could have the night over, she never would have done it; however,
what was done was done.
And Nina Hawley was done, done with
Mark after another Hawley 180. Moreover, the old dirty man decided to
use his mirror to look up the skirts of the young women's dresses, end flowers bloomed in the fertile field.
Where they frolicked in the aforementioned field
and decided to hike through a golf cours in Exeter.
Clearly, this was a bad decision because the golf course
is where old people in argyle go to get it on and play
Scotland games like throw giant logs and
herd really furry sheep.
Yall know ya'll were supposed to show more than
the last line of the story. Like, the last two lines would have been baller. But whatever. <3 Nina.
It's cool, I can always get one of them handjobs...
So we beat on, boats into the current, borne
back ceaselessly into the past..."
P.I. Staker
P.S. - That last one was actually a reference to the phrase that won me a star in Knebel's class junior year of high school. I still have documentation of that.
"So I press on, Oldsmobile into the traffic, pushed back painfully into the SUV."
Well we played that drunk. And this is what we came up with.
Ahem.
"I had some wine after I had sex with him
you know, after the fact, after the fact - it wasn't
exactly true, any of it: the sex, the condom, the baby afterwards.
If she could have the night over, she never would have done it; however,
what was done was done.
And Nina Hawley was done, done with
Mark after another Hawley 180. Moreover, the old dirty man decided to
use his mirror to look up the skirts of the young women's dresses, end flowers bloomed in the fertile field.
Where they frolicked in the aforementioned field
and decided to hike through a golf cours in Exeter.
Clearly, this was a bad decision because the golf course
is where old people in argyle go to get it on and play
Scotland games like throw giant logs and
herd really furry sheep.
Yall know ya'll were supposed to show more than
the last line of the story. Like, the last two lines would have been baller. But whatever. <3 Nina.
It's cool, I can always get one of them handjobs...
So we beat on, boats into the current, borne
back ceaselessly into the past..."
P.I. Staker
P.S. - That last one was actually a reference to the phrase that won me a star in Knebel's class junior year of high school. I still have documentation of that.
"So I press on, Oldsmobile into the traffic, pushed back painfully into the SUV."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)