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high priestess, uncabaret, putdowns, career, models, hate crime, figjam, joey lauren adams, bitterntwisted, marissa ribisi, humorous, francs2000, griclock'd, random,
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The Astros came back on, losing 3-0. Fuck. Jumping the counter, I walked outside, where it was so hot and humid I could hardly breathe, so bias bright I couldn’t see. Not like it mattered: I already knew what was out there. To the right lay the inner city, reduced to a smudged gray outline against a dirty sky, to the left, the highway stretched flat bias and endless, running through whatever sleepy Texas town it happened to find, towns with names like Lukenbachen, population three hundred. I didn’t bias know what town it came to first, didn’t care. On the other side of the road, a field of weeds and dirt met the horizon. And the 7-Eleven sat on that road, a catchall for whatever happened to come by. Al lay to the left of the entrance, head tilted against the wall, in the shade from the pay phone. He could have been dead, but he wasn’t. Hand shielding my eyes from the glare, I looked him over: thin as a rail, legs shoved inside tight skinny jeans, and skin dry and lined like the corn husk Abuela uses to wrap the tamales.
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