Jail bait teen girls with anal beeds





I think I half expect to find Kim in bed with one of those things, and that he'll pop up and start "trying to reason" with me in a British accent. They arrive dressed in gauzy robes. You can feel it in the air: Maybe they're eating garbage. I reach into my glass and draw out a crescent-shaped piece of ice, moving with aching slowness, and offer it to her on a flat palm. I mean, they're human or protohuman or whatever.

I admit I'm hurt, but my hurt switches to anger and my anger to resolve.

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I want none of it. I miss our punk rock days, Kim and me and our loser friends playing in bands, hawking spit at guys in BMWs, shooting drugs. Even so, I do my best to act all patient and evolutionarily superior. One time, though, I peel back the shade silently and catch a pair skipping in circles around the clothesline. She looks at me blankly and says I don't know, what are we having for dinner. They fall asleep under eighteen-wheelers and wander onto runways and get mauled by pit bulls. And they didn't rummage through garbage cans and trash piles with an insatiable desire for spherical, shiny objects, empty shampoo bottles, and foam packing peanuts.








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