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Hathaseyes escreveu:

Before she took a step towards the door a vague hope arose in her, that the silly black hat the drunken dancer wore would heal her womb, and give her babymaking ability once more.

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Hathaseyes escreveu:

direction without cadence without conviction. He caught her glancing and called out happily "You've made a mistake!" By his laugh she assumed him drunk. But what mistake could he be referring to? Her recluse tendencies? Her leaf meals? Her sterilized vagin? Though that wasn't her choice, rather the county forced her to undergo the operation after her sister birthed a redfaced mongoloid. This all occurred before she was ten and if it were up to her there would never have been any procedure. Maybe her habit of pacing? Or her compulsion to place nail cuttings into piles? What could he mean? She soon became obsessed with the possibilities and started shaking. Should she ask him? Might solve the problem. She now had a purpose. The woman decided she would leave and question the man, what could he mean, how could he know, was it all bullshit, is she being paranoid?

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Hathaseyes escreveu:

She, emaciated and toothless, paced barefoot about the loose floorboards of a large room that she hasn't left in seven years, eying the few possessions her grandfather did not pawn for lemon juice before he died, had a case of the shakes, which included two pianos, one still functioning, a broken stool, a cracked bedpan and the withered blanket that she had slept on since childhood. Little mounds of clipped fingernails sat in orderly rows on the left side of the room, toenails on the right. There was a single paneless window, through which brittle brown leaves blew in, her sole source of nutrition, gummed them to a watery earth paste then swallowed, occasionally there was no gagging. Stopped in her stride when a low Slavic singing was heard from outdoors. Suspicious, the woman sidled close to the edge of the window, timidly stared outside at a foreign tumbler, draped in exotic red garments and a peculiar black hat. He danced like a poorly mastered puppet, limbs jumping wildly in every-

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Landstander88 escreveu:

A fairly accurate representation, but there's always those nearly imperceptible changes in pitch and indistinct growling.

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Hathaseyes escreveu:

uhhh...uhhhhh, all gone, every word, each one, disappointment personified, fell flat on my face while walking to the.....to the....to stop and then start again....yes, to stop and then start again, as is our wont, to feel it, yes, it, it as in....yes, but don't please don't....please print those words again which you stole back after I only read them twice, you see....bit embarrassing to admit...hehe....I'm sorta slow....in the head, mamma was a dicey riley...hehe...I wish i could have seen your words again...hehe, as I said, i'm a bit slow, but please, yes, I'd rather appreciate it greatly, reprint those words, or make new ones, whichever feels right, just don't....hehe...just don't leave me here alone....yes, please don't leave me alone. You see, I'm contagious.

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iWatchuSleep999 escreveu:

more like a master...bation. of the nation. ROFL GET IT! CAUSE ITS THE PRESIDENT?!?! No but seriously. Dicks. Hands. Masterbation.

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iWatchuSleep999 escreveu:

you sent me four D-words in that. Ex. of D-words: Dicks. Dicks. Dicks. IE, your entire message summed up: Dicks, Dicks, Dicks, Dicks.

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Hathaseyes escreveu:

This group of just-now-getting-it youths, red eyed and taciturn, loitering lackadaisically outside her factory, now took advantage of her absence, and employed their furtive schemes of purloining the recipe for her shit- her, Bread and Butter.

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