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You love it.
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It was curved, like a fine Arabian sword. AND he was in a band lead singer and he was goood and I fucked him on the sink in the men's restroom of a SuperSubway just because I was 21 and could. god he was hot. saw a pic of him just a few weeks ago. despite his no smoking and hardly ever drinking the boy has NOT aged well. Hell, I look better than he does and I've trashed myself. oh well. It was what it was and what it was was FREAKING GREAT! |
sundae----I'm contemplating my lost youth and how a girl couldn't really appreciate a curved 7&1/2 incher when she was 21 but how NOW I can appreciate it, my joints hurt too much to have sex.
did I tell you guys chemo is mustard gas? yeah, I learned that from the IQ book you sent me, Cherry. MUSTARD GAS. My handwriting has never recovered and neither have other parts of me. |
(sorry, ortho---but like you said, you're not getting the Red Devil that I got so you'll be okay)
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Just to correct Bri.
Yes, it's in public, but Brits at least will appreciate it. I sent her a QI book. Flicking through it before I sent, every entry came into my ear as Stephen Fry. Or occasionally Phill Jupitus (did you know his step-father was Lithuavian and was given that surname in 1917 at immigration?) Never Alan Davies though. |
what's in public that Brits will appreciate? be clear, woman!
and, oh, sorry; a QI book. Still----it's mustard gas. and Stephen Fry---that cheers me up already. I want to live with him. Do you suppose we could get him as a fourth? (Dani being the third, natch) |
I meant that I was correcting you in public. Something I only tend to do in PMs these days so as not to offend.
Yeah I want to live with Mr Fry too. I think Dani would go for someone spikier though (not sure this is a real word, it comes from spiky) When my Euromillions reward comes in, I'll make it clear that M Fry always has a room at my place. He'll drop by from time to time, don't you worry. |
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Oh, sorry, this is a happy thread. Disregard the above. |
Plath has the perfect poem for the poisonous Yew:
The Moon and the Yew Tree This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place. Separated from my house by a row of headstones. I simply cannot see where there is to get to. The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -- Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection At the end, they soberly bong out their names. The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape. The eyes lift after it and find the moon. The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. How I would like to believe in tenderness - The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes. I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering Blue and mystical over the face of the stars Inside the church, the saints will all be blue, Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews, Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence. she get's it pretty good, doesn't she? I tried not to take the Yew personally but jaysus Taxotere is rough. and cardiotoxicity: got it. Yay me! It's like my sister said when I was taking chemo---they're trying to just barely kill you; just kill you a little. |
Excellent pome, Trilby.
Sent by thought transference |
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I've read this a few times. NOW I see that your quote does not include the word "up" between "broken" and "you". This epiphany changes the tone of your remark completely. |
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