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| conchata ferrell, bostonmassachusetts, job listings, toasterovens, jason london, personal narrative non fiction, tom jarmusch, feature film comedy, astronomy, igor, strictly 4 my, tony scott, charlie croker, advertisements, parody, mp3 2 pac, portillo, | "Jesus!" he said, taking a cigarette from the pack with his teeth and putting the pack back in his pocket. "I don't know if I want to fucking kill you or do it again," legal career he mumbled with the unlit butt dangling from his mouth. I hate to admit this because it's both so true and so trite, but he legal career had a total James Dean thing going for him. Even though I'd promised myself since enduring my devastating legal career little-girl crush on Michael Lahey who everyone knew didn't have a mother and his father drank; Michael Lahey, the king of the brooding boys who wore nothing but jeans and a jeans jacket all year round and he wouldn't even change for gym; Michael Lahey who could hit a baseball over the fence every time and wrote this poem in English class that made me cry--I'd promised myself that never again would I get stuck on a boy like Michael Lahey who I thought needed me but in the end needed me to need him more. Erik was slapping all the pockets in his jeans with his hands. |
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| from the back, but I just kept going, slippery and free and untouchable as a little ball of mercury. I could see our friends growing smaller and smaller in my parody rearview. They were parody jumping up and down and I thought I could hear them hooting and hollering at this crazy chick racing madly down the road with some guy she just met hanging from the back of her car. What was she doing? What did she want? Was he supposed to fall off? Get mangled? parody Die? Would she be hauled in for vehicular homicide? Murder in the second degree? Just full on murder with intent? As I finally slowed to a stop, Erik was pounding his fists on the top of my car and then he came around to my open window. "What the fuck are you doing? You could've killed me! You're out of your mind!" His face was red and he was panting and coughing and running his fingers through his really nice hair over and over. "Sorry about that," I said, feeling strangely unsorry. He reached into his shirt pocket with his dirty fingers with the nails bit to the quick and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds. |
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