Member-only story
“I’m Not Your F*cking Nice Gal”
Rebounding to Julia Hawkins: “I want to be a dirty girl”
She announced “I’m here” upon arrival but kicked the glass door carelessly almost wishing it would break by mere chance “oops, wasn’t me”
with her high heels like a horse you don’t want to ride. But the horse wants to ride you now. And riding, riding you like a baby donkey.
Broken back hee haw.
Oh, this sentence was too long — grammatically wrong, just like this relationship — emotionally wrong, but the record keeps on spinning. I dance while shedding skin.
She sits on the edge of the sofa, “XL coffee please, no cream, 5 sugar spoons. & I brought some donuts for myself if you don’t mind, ’cause I don’t mind. Eating (in) your face”
“So listen, I run Ultra-Feminist-Iron-Man for breaky, do you hear me?
“Your friend, this friend of yours, buddy/bud/bum/chum whatever you boys call each other.”
“You tell him to incubate-sitting this ostrich egg until it would hatch and bravo: you’re a fresh daddy to an unknown creature you need to nurture. My breakup present to you. Do your dirty homework. Do your dirty dishes. Do you dirty women. Do you dirty you.
You’re a jar of faded ashes. Take your skinny legs and skinny love and get the f*ck out of my way because I am not…
