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| outlawz, gift set, assassin, bbs, actresses, sex, softcore, david sedaris, sexy, wikipedia, splash, jarhead(full screen), blogs, unreleased tupac mp3, advertisements, marketing, abuse, perfect name, literary salon, | Erik was slapping all the pockets in his jeans with his hands. "Got a light?" he said. I reached into my glove compartment and found my old lighter, sparking it up and holding it out to him. He leaned down and lit his cigarette. I tupac album didn't know what else to do so I smiled at him. "Got tupac album one of those tupac album for me?" He took the pack from his pocket and held it out. It was the first time I'd had a cigarette in my hand in five weeks and two days. "How fast were you going anyway?" he asked, as I poised my thumb on the lighter. "You call that fast?" I scoffed, flaring it up and lighting my cigarette, feeling very Little Darlings, very Kristy McNichol. "Oh, you're so tough," he said with a smile, something guys only say when they really know you're not so tough and I was kind of relieved. "So," he said, "Mario Andretti. You think you could give me a ride back to civilization?" and that's how it all began. We spent the first couple of months at school mostly smoking, talking, drinking, fighting, and fucking, basically in that order. |
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| "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. "Jesus!" he said, taking a cigarette from the pack with his teeth and putting the pack back in advertisements his pocket. "I don't advertisements know if I want to fucking kill you or do advertisements it again," 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 had a total James Dean thing going for him. Even though I'd promised myself since enduring my devastating 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. |
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