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Every time Hector left his home he wondered if it was for the last time. It was Monday at 2:45, so he was standing in the bedroom near the tall mirror, staring into his dark eyes. In the past, she would lovingly help him dress with her tiny, perfect fingers. She…
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I have two of those hand exercisers jamming the
tray and keeping it locked in place
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The mulch vendor is a crook but we have no choice, not with the shortage of soil. Have to guard the stuff, put alarm wires around the garden, leave a friend in charge to spot the thieves if you go away overnight. If you…
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Her dress swirled around her as she stepped into the ballroom, looking every bit as sultry as her recent Playboy cover...
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I sat on the corner of her desk ... Angela Merkel can be a sweetie when she wants to be.
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Maybe she was crying before she got on the coach at Marble Arch, settled in the seat across from me, but by the time we reach Victoria Gate, tears stream down her face, mouth open to receive her own sacrament.Indian, ageless in tasteful floral, a blue sweater despite summer…
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Yesterday morning I sank to the depths of hell and barely crawled out in time. There is no answer except possibly death that will find me relief from his distant presence. I am free but yet I am not and I slowly sink into a hollow world where nothing hurt
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The dog was there before Vera was there, so she supposed she couldn't hate it too much. It wasn't like she had to live with the thing, either, though she might as well have hosted it in her ear for the eight months it took that particular batch of neighbo
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Hers or mine?
You figure it out, jackass.
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Every morning if I don't have to go potty....
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He looks at me again, this time glancing down at my skinny jeans, “And... are you a single mom?” he seems to think he has it right, taking a last look at my aquamarine colored pants and the tapered area around my calves.
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Afterward, at the motel, I asked her why she liked sex so much, and she said she liked the taste.
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By: Roz Warren (and Janet Golden)I'm a humor writer. My work appears in publications from The Funny Times to The New York Times. Janet is a history professor whose writing was confined to academic journals and the occasional op-ed. Driving back from the Jersey shore one…
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They try to incorporate a little of Ravel around their edges, the ones where their molecules bump off into other parallel realities, into other non-localities, into other potentials. She isn't buying it. She's tuned in. And she can tell.
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Your girlfriend with the Dresden blue eyes with the sleek belly & gorgeous scars from ripping off Avenue A dealers has you on a leash of short-term amnesia. You can't recall the last time you got off from being trigger-happy inside her & you formed a…
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You are like gasoline on the fire of my desire–you send me higher and higher into paroxysms of earth-shaking erotic explosions. Remember–the “light” catfood is the kind in the turquoise bag.
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The ghosts run before/
attacking horsemen. A heart/
is ruptured by a spear.
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The way she once felt for another, naked mornings in her bed, and Young Frankenstein. Sed-a-give.
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Parsimony, Sage Advice, Alimony, and Time.
That would be one.
The Waste Land. The Hollow Men. The Red Wheelbarrow.
There are others,
But I have definite shoe anxiety dreams and can’t get over them.
Do not Go Gently Into That Good Night. Alone
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Her clothing style varies from grunge to glamor and . . . she always looks good.
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didn't know how to do it
just tried to squeeze on the teats
didn't know I had to grab up on the udder and pull
Unca Ole laughed
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I can't find my way back to the library. I've heard of this happening, that if you leave even for just one day and for a very good reason, as good a reason as mine, you may not find your way back. Now why should this be so? I do not understand this library. It houses…
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...the knives she laid out on the porch before her husband left her, washed and dried, set neatly by copper pennies.
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Be careful when you choose your muse,
for she may be a siren.
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There’s a hole in my sock, just large enough that my big toe keeps slipping out.
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Those who love aluminum bellies and landing gear and ailerons... that ilk... settled at the western edge of of LAX 24R 6L and called the encampment Flight Path.
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Henry and I had met at the hospital. He'd been forty years my senior, but we'd been in for precisely the same reason: kidney stones.
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But what if it grew into a nasty tea party-ish bimbo right winger -- a little Michelle Bachmann nubbin?
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It was where the “Suits” worked. I didn’t want to go there, I didn’t want to be there, but in those days one did what one was supposed to do.
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