Dammit. That story I asked to be read didn't really take place in the South. That ruined my trifecta that I thought I had with the piece. Who the hell cares about South Windsor, Connecticut skanks? I don't. They're just leftovers from the plethora of Kennedy skank bangings over the past few decades. "Would you say I have a plethora of skank bangings?" "Si, John, I would say you have a plethora" "Ted, do you know what a plethora is?"
I don't want blue blood hoochies, I require my trash pure Southern. PBR blooded. Read the story if you want, but it's ruined for me because I can't imagine her screaming "Daddy paid for this dress; you ain't my Daddy" no more. Dammit. She even jumped on the hood of a car and everything.
I'm all alone. Not figuratively, literally. I'm alone and sober. This can't last long. A sober B and an entire night alone don't mix well. Like oil and vodka. Mmmm, oil and vodka. I think we have some olive oil in the pantry and the liquor store doesn't close until 9. Boredom and sobriety problem solved, people. Nothing more to say.
Weblog Commenting and Trackback by HaloScan.com