zachhughes
I don't want to seem like an alarmist, miss,
But I do believe that that man is coming to assault you.
I don't mean to be an alarmist my good man,
But I believe that you just stepped in a dog's feces.
I didn't intend to alarm anyone,
But I believe the end is nearly come.
She had a cigarette that dangled from her mouth; it matched the one in mine to perfection. She came a little nearer and asked me if I'd like to meet her sometime for a discussion on something or other. I told her that it might work out alright. She leaned in for a kiss and I shrugged it off and missed her entirely. I don't kiss women with cigarette on their breath.
I saw him laying on the concrete, hand outstretched, body craving for a fix, and I spat near his feet. Not on, but near, I couldn't dare feed what was eating at his psyche. A conscience isn't built for that; it's built for regrowth.
"That's the last straw," he muttered to me as we threw up the tailgate on the old Ford and leaned back to smoke our cigarettes, "man, oh, man, that was one heck of a load today wasn't it partner?" He pulled his hat from the top of his head, pulled the sweat from his brow, and swatted it against his pants-leg to knock off some of the heavy layer of grime.
"Sure was."
I can't see what you could possibly mean when you look at me in that way. Of course, I made the mistake. It was terrible, I know, but I don't see what you could possibly hold over my head for this long. I mean, come on, it was only a little thing, did he really mean THAT much to you?
Since when was killing a dog considered so mean?
The chore of the situation, as I will make abundantly clear to you, dear friend, is to face the fact that we are not the facades that we play out to ourselves. A man from Sumatra once asked me for some pickles. Upon my inquiry as to the amount, he gave a knowing smile, winked, and replied, "A bushel."
There's a color that I'll see on my off days; the color of which, I suppose is kill.
I've never received a "hard-blown" cast, because I've never broken a bone. I once had a cast, however. I had a girlfriend that was a graduate student in a pottery class, and she did all that she could to cast me into a being that was "acceptable" to her friends. We're no longer together.
I can't quite define where I believe that my anger stems from. I've been told that people think that it stems from a drinking problem that I might have; but I think that is a problem of it's own causing. I think it stems from when you used to bed his mom; when you ruined the family.
I know a guy named Wade. Well, I suppose "know" is a bit of a bold statement. I went to his house once with a mutual friend and we sat around smoking far too much marijuana. This took about three hours.
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