She was excited to use the word raiment in a sentence. Her lips were blue as she canvassed a Cocaine Anonymous party for someone to excite with a transubstantiating short tale featuring this word exactly in the middle of the tale. One leg in one state, the other not touching down. Her t shirt read ‘I love rules.’ She did not find or mean the expression to be funny or weakly confront eyes that would find the trite saying irritating as they shuffled off to see their investor advisor.
- I was the only man or woman of Italian descent watching a fixed boxing match where an Italian would surely be thrashed by some top notch Irish Boxer in a Dublin arena under the purple protection and endless cheer-smoke of a homecoming fix. I was drinking a Belgian beer, disgusted with the Italian’s tattoo of some fictional bird on his upperback, bothered in that paper cut zipper broken way he allowed the superior reach of the other boxer to render his jabs and curling punches as irrelevant as an international treaty in the face of the usual naked power fuck-youing when it all comes down to you know…
A. Was I too reliant on the memory of the Doctor’s intense migraine headache condition as material for some miscellaneous writing? I was always trying to incorporate in some two unpainted flung pieces of prose-druff, her predilection to use very thick pens. She stuck them in her beautifully aged dense blonde-gray curls. These pens were rubbery stout batons with an ink-life perhaps nearly exactly the span of the total hours spent in a short month bracing herself against the unabated dolor and unmitigated gnashing of pain receptors that ensued when the pills wore off, before they