Things for Anna when she gets back: sewing machine fluro pink skirt

phenergan post

She lived in a state of pungent disarray. So many shirt buttons had been broken by the sharp heel of a shoe, while stepping over mountains of clothing. Her hair was perpetually matted by the sweaty toss and turn of a poor night's sleep. She knew tomorrow her eyes would be puffy from all the tears she had cried tonight.

Gordy

On their first date, he ordered tempura seafood for all his dishes; tempura prawn, tempura soft shell crab, tempura squid. She had giggled inwardly at the absurdity of it but didn't let her amusement show. On their fifth date, or thereabouts, they had realised that they had matching birthmarks. He could be jealous at times, and her stupid indiscretion in her previous blog posts had hurt him. Now, at the twinkle of metal against metal, her heart leaped in the hope that he had returned to her. All she could do was wait for him to return, a vice at her throat and at her black heart.

Two triangles walk into a bar

Two triangles walk into a bar. It's grey and cold and they are shivering shiver runs up and down their axis and they balance on bar stools and look angrily at John. John is working there tonight and he wishes he was at home with a cup of coffee and his collection of old china dolls. He likes to stroke their pale frigid faces and pretend that he's not lonely and alone and when he dies no one will care not even his priceless collection of porcelain. Triangles don't look like dolls and he isn't happy to see these two sharp faces staring up at him. "What can I get you?" he pretends to be polite but secretly he's thinking about squashing and smashing their stupid fucking faces into the floor. The first triangle looks at the second triangle and they seem to communicate without words because simultaneously they bounce up and over the bar and embed themselves in John's head. Two sharp points sticking out of the side, he looks like a Picasso elephant. Thin rivulets of red blood run down his cheeks, iron hemoglobin seeping into the collar of his un-ironed shirt. "Isosceles bitch," they say and they fall out of his head and pour themselves a shot of whisky.