Weasel, yeah, that's me. Just look at the way I sneak around, a Chuck Palahniuk book wrapped in my arms folded behind my back, and smirking at the pretentious little screwballs passing along... they just gawk, they don't even say hi.
It's not as if they can pretend they don't know me.
Me, my hair ill-kept.
Weasel, and her raising eyebrow, doing the same, cynical dance to maybe pry open some eyes.
Yeah, you know the saying...
The lower you fall, the higher you fly.
I'm currently twiddling (harhar) at a horrible little story called Rabbit Stop. Please don't read it.
Yet.
It's about a Mr. and Mr. Smith of Mary Jane, an old pervert and his self-doubting lunatic girl toy, a premeditated, serial killing kind of prison ritual, a bribing, self-serving attorney, all pulled together by the downfall of two rival drug coups. And the whole story is just this one fucked up claustrophobic flesh-fest, hopefully out to teach us all a lesson on the nature of society,
for us to learn to stop lying to ourselves,
for us to understand our purpose in this world...
(too ambitious?)
FictionPress.com - let the words flow
