silver and hot pink leopard spots for miss grizz.
Ragin Cajun tips, fruity fimos.
As I was nestled, ever so snugly in my Christmas bed, I dreamt not of sugar plum fairies, but of sandwiches filled with Cap’n Crunch.
the man behind the dairywip counter resembled a young-ish george carlin.
the urge to jump over and hug him was quashed by his insistence of yelling out, repeatedly, CHIPS!
As my dog sleeps, his jowls flutter.
Thus creating the single most hilarious noise; bar none.
Laughter becomes near impossible to contain in such situations.
I must do so, for fear of waking him and creating some sort of Nora Ephron style insecurity about the hanging, wrinkled skin attached to his face.
(October edition)
-named the cat living under my father’s house
-introduced the phrase “mad magazine” to my 9-year-old brother
only realizing after the fact the could-be detrimental effects of my actions.
I always miss my wild things.
I always miss the prairies.
Conflicts of the soul have created fissures in my core
gripped with the fear that if i do infact rise to add a much-needed log to the fire …
my uterus may sneakily slip out and slither through the leg of my courdoroy slacks.
after the first initial glance into the mirror after a five day music festival, i concluded that my skin has turned the color (thankfully not the texture) of a suede boot.
