... Mrs. Clark lived in the apartment in near solitude, amid a profusion of dollhouses and their occupants. She ate austere lunches of crackers and sardines and watched television, most avidly “The Flintstones.” A housekeeper kept the dolls’ dresses impeccably ironed.More here. Lots more.
I’m grateful to be alive so many years after diagnosis,
but also a little annoyed.
What this odd story reveals is that the ancient anatomists were major dickheads. We all were, back then.From Cyle.
My deliriously irreverent friend, Noa, supports my xanax addiction and has taught me everything I know about creative profanity. I heartily recommend. Go read her front page you will be instantly hooked and/or terribly offended. Either way, you’re entertained.This is a great place to start. But empty your bladder first.
"You didn't get a good deal, you were just fucked gently. Trust me, Best Buy will not be the one with theShit My Dad Says
sore asshole tomorrow."
In the medical literature, the vocal “cord” is a mere “fold,” a piece of gristle that strives to reach out and touch its twin, thus producing the possibility of sound effects. But I feel that there must be a deep relationship with the word “chord”: the resonant vibration that can stir memory, produce music, evoke love, bring tears, move crowds to pity and mobs to passion.From Peggy.
[O]nce the turkey vulture has emptied out the contents of its vile gut, it waddles its fat ass away while the predator snarfs down the big steaming pile of puke. Good job, turkey vulture; crisis averted. This is why you have no friends.
The woman in front of me had her 'service dog' with her. It was a poodle. It wore a pink 'Service Dog' lambskin jumper and the 'Service Dog' was bedazzled on with crystals.
"When a San Fran writer on sexual aberrations has to buy a ticket to the 'F' state to fill out his story, we have a winner."
