Eight slow hours.

[unburiable]

The rich kids in class were always talking the loudest. Even when the teacher was in the middle of explaining what a paradigm was. You would think that always having everything they ever wanted would sort of make the rich kids bored of everything; even talking. But that really wasn’t so, I guess. Maybe the hot new cars they could afford were always

Comments

[scribbles_hb]

i don't who took the picture or who the boy is, but I put it on my desktop at work because i heart it.

is that you susie anne? is this me, curly q.?

[durwoodsauls]

i think you forgot a word in there somewhere's little lady i'd a fix it for ya, but i don't get around to correctin' shit too awftin' round here. too much goddamn work this season on the farm. been cuttin' the wheat all damn week it's a hell of a job when you ain't got nobody else to help ya. john down the roads got two boys, there his, theyll take turns riding the tractor back an forth to the silo and shit. make it real smooth and criminal like.
only problem working with an for family is they can get a little ornery about somethings, ya know what i' mean? knew this one fellow who got so drunk and mean one night about his boys shoddy workmanship he up and took his virginity with a handful of hemerroids staight out that kids asshole. kid will never walk the same, can't work in tobacco no more neither, heat makes his taterhole leak a little bit, mexicans make fun of it when the white boy stands there with his bile running down the back of his overalls.
poor swayne, kid never knew what hit him.

Re: is that you susie anne? is this me, curly q.?

[scribbles_hb]

i'll say!!!!

Claustrophobia in the folds of my jacket.

[unburiable]

With half a splintered tire iron, fired hot in the basement furnace, this guy Bill used to hold other inmates face first against the brutal end of a hot shower nozzle after work-outs when the guards were usually off eating fruit and hamburgers in the sideward of the mess hall. He’d press the reddened tip of the tire iron against the back of some lonely soul’s neck and threaten to melt his medulla oblongata unless cooperation were given. It was no secret that to stick around when you noticed Bill coming into the showers was bad news, so there weren’t usually no witnesses to the actual crime thence perpetrated, and just damned if anyone minding their own business were gonna put their own lives in such harsh jeopardy over a lost cause

so good

[isosceles]

Please keep going.....

fear not.

[escape_infinity]

why didn't you try to help the victim?

Jason Robards in Bright Lights, Big City.

[foreignpetals]

While in Vancouver on the set of the new Katharine Ross film entitled Don't Let Go, I noticed this broad has really let herself go. I'm talking co-star in Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid Paul Newman old. I remember jacking myself off to The Graduate at 13, always wondering how good of a lay this hardbody was. Now I wouldn't go near her with one of escape_infinity's boring as Howard's fucking End fingers. Howard's End being a film enjoyed by Neil Garriscond for many years.

The trip to Vancouver wasn't a total waste, however. I met up with this cute hardbody grip and received a great handjob from her in the back of Scott Wilson's limo while Robert Redford's niece left seven fucking text messages on my Nokia.

Fat girl, great lay, but fat girl.

Louis Yorba.

Dead pigeons filmed for three hours straight and called art.

[unburiable]

Five years ago I’d have laughed it off as some really lame joke some commoner-turned-up-and-comer might tell at a big premiere party circle while we all poured our first chilled glasses of champagne and clinked to what an amazing accomplishment whatever schlock disaster it was we were spending thousands of dollars being there for. But today it’s one of those mock-surprising realities only bad writers like Steven King seem to think are worth shoving at the end of a 600+ page novel about ghosts seeking revenge, or aliens assuming the bodies of the living-or any other fucking ending from ex-science fiction magazines out of the 1950s that nobody gives more than half a fuck to remember

Jason Robards in All the Presidents Men.

[unburiable]

Two girls just came into the office asking about the gold ring around the elevator button leading to my floor.