“i’m just a pain thing, walking art, painting pistol,” sheila shrugged. goldy locks shaking, she’d forsake him one day.
(best friend, a real) record broke. the sand at the beach was so shiny. mr ego nobody read a book, sitting on top o’a box. “i was shedding identities like cake,” hela hollered. her lips were so red, like angel’s bird blood dripped down, drool brillo pad hair.
the satanists were the nicest people you’d meet. two goat heads hung on the wall, a black one on the left, upside down crucifix hanging around its neck. whitey on the right. pentagram clock inbetween em. her kids screamed for no reason.
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