Working Retail: An Erotic Series Vol 1 Samantha

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I told Teddy I wanted to go to the cave, which is what we called a mostly neglected listening room in the basement. You went there primarily to do what I had in mind, which was to recue a tape and try again. He seemed eager to come with, and I figured four ears beat two, so why not. Also, he was lonely. We all were. We passed through security and made for the stairs.

The building we worked felt more lab than prison, though it was a close call, and anyway, I might have preferred either. They were gathered at a work station-turned-bar, and playing cards. The three were ecstatic to see us. I said I had some reviewing to do and not to mind me at all. Suit yourself, they said. Teddy was dealt in and I retreated to a corner.

I sat with my back to the room, put on my headphones, and cued up. Okay, now pay attention. By the sixth, I had completely tuned out his whimpers and clamor of self-disgust, but I still could not make sense of the rest. Meantime, the others were kissing. I went back to the tape. Pressing harder if I pushed forward, so that, faster, faster, done, and then I could relax and be successful at my job.

I had always been like this. In high school and even college, the dwindling of time for an exam, the five-minute warning, then two, always aroused me so that I would orgasm with an intensity inversely proportioned to the time allotted to finish that sentence or logarithm. Here, too, minus the part where I could stare without offense. I tried to get back to work.

And frankly, why was no one touching me? I was wearing a Disneyland sweatshirt with Tinker Bell in flight over the castle, jeans with an elastic waist, and clogs. Nothing says I am a frozen bread loaf better than clogs, except, perhaps, tight-fitting denim with an elastic waist, but come on, was this a discerning orgy? Well, fine. I unplugged my headphones and let the tape feed through the wall speakers. The others had been listening to reggae, but not anymore.

Now it was all about my weepy Korean and Morgan , who was putting to superlative use the chops God gave her, not to mention the cavities, too. None of them minded the Korean, and so it was as if his voice kept my head in quarantine while the rest of me went to town. Who took off my clothes? Had I ever kissed a girl? Are these the questions that spring to mind? We were five. But there was no coupling here.

And so, a new formula. Five people, three holes each, fifteen in toto. How many ways to share fifteen among five?

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It was exhausting. Labor intensive. A major concession. If the US knew this ahead of time, they could call Carter off, Carter who was making the administration look impotent and ridiculous, calling in an ex-president to negotiate for them. God, I felt good. Got caught halfway. I realize our equipment was at the vanguard of technology, but this did not mean we were above a primitive malfunction now and then. But what was I supposed to do? The place reeked of jizz and sweat, and I had done the horrible, corner-cutting thing of using the original tape, a dupe took days, which meant the only way to recoup the information was to keep hitting eject until the button jammed as well.

Morgan was threading her legs through spandex, snatching her accoutrements, bra, earrings, pink panties, and bolting for the door. I put on my clothes. Things in my body felt misplaced. Semen was leaking from my ass because no one ever tells you about that part in Sex Ed. There was no time to get cleaned up, the Carter talks were the day after tomorrow. Did I have the tape? Sort of. My boss snapped the tape trying to get it out, and I was redeployed. Dish is looking for writers to cover events for The Outlet. Send a brief bio and sample to dish electricliterature.

Small Demons maps, French fries, and Guinness makes three servings of literary awesomeness. Instead, we were treated to cross-cultural journeys, mistranslations and misperceptions; for good measure, we also had a sexcapade or five. Polly Bresnck, reading about peacock avocados.

Matthue Roth stepped to the mic next, and read from a recently anthologized story about bullies. Roth has a charm about him that entices you, no matter your literary proclivities. Rupinder Gill and Indian Rumspringa. Rupinder Gill and I have a lot in common. Growing up Indian at home and American in school, she was bound to run into some cultural pickles. A few hands went up. Where are Filipinos from? Mark Leyner is a force. This is the good news. Margins of Tolerance. His work has appeared in Vol. Some of you may be familiar with LongPen , a nifty gadget devised by Margaret Atwood a few years ago, which allows authors and readers to interact and get books signed across vast distances.

Here is an illustration of how it works. Now Atwood is getting all meta and beta and taking it to another level with Fanado , which sounds like something right out of Oryx and Crake , but with more people and without the dystopian vibe. It combines the LongPen technology with chat, instant messaging, and social media. And I also know how hard it is as a fan to connect with with your favorite artist once that person becomes famous… Fanado connects creators directly with their fans, and allows them to sign and personalize things individually.

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This is a pretty interesting and exciting development in digital technology. Would it increase the value of an e-book like it does the value of a physical book? And who will be the first writer to receive that request? Right now Fanado is in its embryonic phase, and Atwood and her team are seeking funding via Indiegogo to develop it further.

Something special was waiting to happen. The bookstore had been transformed into a lecture hall, with long rows of filled seats fixed before the podium. Latecomers were pressed against the bookshelves. Professor-types peaked over the mussed up hair of East Village kids as buttoned-down editorial assistants offered their seats to faded old men with canes. In the front, some guy set his iPhone on a tripod and tapped the screen to take pictures of Krasznahorkai as he spoke to critic James Wood. Wood followed his introduction with an interview. When asked about the length of his sentences, the writer said that he distrusted short sentences because people speak with commas, not periods.

Discussing his beginnings as a writer, Krasznahorkai explained that he only wanted to write a single book. Crass Molnar and Nick Nicoludis: readers, writers, lobster slingers. Krasznahorkai concluded the evening with a reading from the English translation of Satantango. After the excerpt, Krasznahorkai concluded the evening wordlessly and took a seat next to a stack of new books: Satantango, The Melancholy of Resistance , and War and War , all available from New Directions.

EOD handled the bombs. SSTP treated the wounds. PRP processed the bodies. The 03s patrolled the MSRs. If the ESB destroyed a building, we gave fair comp. If the 03s shot a civilian, we paid off the families. I never wanted to leave the FOB. I never wanted to drive the MSRs or roll with 03s. PFC did. But me, when I got in boot camp I thought, great. My last mission was to AZD. A couple of Iraqis had driven up fast on a TCP. They ignored the EOF, the dazzlers, and the warning shots, and died for it. PFC always needed his hand held. IEDs made of old shells, or C4, or homemade explosives.

Chlorine bombs mixed with HE. VBIEDs in burned out cars. IEDs in drainage ditches or dug into the middle of the road. Some in the bodies of dead camels. IEDs everywhere, but most missions, nothing. Maybe there was a God and maybe He had noted her unbearable pain. She closed her eyes and maintained her lane.

Only, nothing happened. She opened her eyes two seconds later, when the displacement of air, caused by the little Honda screaming past her to the left, rattled their own car. She let out a small, strangulated cry of what-- disappointment, relief, anger with God? She looked over at Carl. His mouth was open. He was snoring away, peaceful as an old cow lying under a shady tree in a pasture. God, how she had come to hate him. The eyes came off smoothly, unpeeled like dreams, then the nose which was a bit more of a chore cracked off with crumbs, then the mouth, no bother, and the eyebrows, and lastly the ears, with ease.

These last cephalic components, detached by hand, came off with minimum discomfort and one might even say: aplomb. His hands had also gone for the hair, but decided at the crucial moment to leave that dog where it lay. Now he laid out his features on the desk before him, his desk which was a kitchen table, his kitchen table which was a workbench as, it should also be noted, his kitchen was a shed, as was the rest of his home. Remembering this advice, he took a pencil from the workbench and scored his head with one vertical line down the centre and another horizontal one across the eyes, or at least where they had, at one time, been, holding it steady and with care, in case he forgot the correct proportions of a correct Face when it came to reassembly.

Otherwise people would really laugh in his disproportionate Face, or think him unduly quizzical, even curious; it could be the difference between laughter and none, just teethy grins; between a noose for the neck or a string for the ankles; between life and this life; between gifted future and no present. At this stage, air floated between the seconds, he was having quite a bit of fun, regardless of that armchair feeling of fraudulence running from his spine.

He stood up and straightened the column, walked the two steps available inside the shed, and performed a little pirouette at each end for the benefit of his faceless audience, the occasion being the closest he had come to perfection, he thought. He stood on it awhile and enjoyed, for there are few faceless men in this century. Eventually, he resumed his task. He felt his way back to the bench and leant the front portion of his Head toward it feigning to look, while his eyes, which could actually see, eyed him with uncertain ridicule, just as his brain realised, being as it was that it could not be removed, he should have brought with him a mirror for inspection.

Now the pencil marks were most likely an inconvenience. The features were laid out, all piled up on top of one another, astounded by possibility. His fingertips jabbed and shuffled them around, lifting each one to feel for its purpose, and its place. He looked at himself, somehow. His divorced eyes narrowed. Squeezing the lips, he picked up the pinky flab and positioned it a little crooked on an area usually reserved for noses, before slapping himself on the chops.

Next he was on his way back up the garden along the sane paving, knocking his shoes on the patio then his knuckles on the conservatory glass. Inside the glass was a room: He tilted his head upward, aiming the lower portion of his skull forward, for a peak in with the eye of his chin. His wife was laid there looking up at the top sheet, formed of black-sky ice, winking left to right to readjust the visual of a mouthless blacksuited whiteshirted man who, on his button-holed belly, observed blankly the ongoing charade, his hands and legs spread across the glass roof like a spider pariah.

Let me have a look at you. Her face jiggled like a ratty vintage centrefold when she leaned over the sofa and looked into him; he was rattling, vibrating, with necklace-straining eagerness, the prospect of validation becoming too much for him. It was over quickly. Brain also still functional, he went back to work. He discarded the ear, the one which rang of rejection, tossed it flippantly into the bin,. He slid his remaining features into a straight line that ran along the horizontal pencil mark.

From left to right: ear, eye, mouth, nose, eye, eyebrow, eyebrow. He danced a pirouette and curtsied to the blind roaring crowd. He tried again. His wife looked tired of the game. This time, back in the wooden box, he savaged it all. Holding the bin up he smeared his face downward into it.

Yes, there was a moment when all of the bits, at split second intervals, had formed all of the so-far conceived faces of this world, before collecting into a laughable concentrate centred on his chin. The now useless, now unwanted, suddenly unsavoury bits slid off and bounced about, salty flesh against metal waste, as angrily exposited as his featureless face would allow, the bin left soppy with tears in its caboose.

His Nose: dripping His Eyes: nothing He pulled out the mouth and tried to hold its lips tight, though the mumbling kept on repeating. He dropped it back in where it slapped the nose and bounced off the bed of eyebrows and poked the eye where it stuck in, upright. Standing on his feet like the mouth he had plunged in his disowned eye, he launched the little container out the door and onto the rectangle black-green read: Garden.

Slouched, slunched, shoulders contacting the knees, head conversing with the toes. Inside, a man stayed where he was, looking like a portrait of a woolly angel read: Derelict. The crowd that had been roaring, had been applauding, had been supportive of his clean faced venture, were standing this time not in ovation, but what his brain now thought was embarrassed escape. They left and left him there. His shorts falling to his ankles. I first noticed the wretched little things when paw prints mysteriously appeared on the hood and windshield of my brand new BMW. One of the few drawbacks of living here is the carport parking.

Condominiums are a beautiful thing — everything perfectly manicured and controlled. No lawn to mow, no trash cans to take to the curb, no worries And forget about using a car cover -— the overnight moisture makes removing those things kind of like smearing your paint job with a moist towelette. The mystery was solved when I returned home from work one day. As I pulled in, a scattering of black furry bodies into the bushes and trees gave evidence that stray kittens had invaded my gated condo complex. With a sigh, I heaved the tray and its contents into the dumpster.

As I walked to my recently-acquired bachelor pad I pondered the situation. Of what use was the condo in the hills, the guarded security gate, the carefully-tended landscaping? All this organization and perfection had been shattered with one stray cat These creatures have absolutely no business being here, cluttering up the scenery, targeting my car As I faded into sleep that night, my thoughts wandered back to the divorce and the circumstances that landed me here. No emotion, she would complain. What would she prefer — nasty, messy fights every night? Upheavals of emotion, full of tears?

Mankind has not evolved for thousands of years only to be weak china cups brimming with sloppy feelings. The next morning, briefcase in hand, I trekked to the parking lot to discover some housecoat-clothed octogenarian laying out a metal tray of cat food identical to the one I threw away the day before. I noticed the freshly-dented corner of the tray and realized with a surge of distaste that the old bag actually DUG the thing out of the trash, piled another Mount Vesuvius-sized amount of cat food on it, and was tucking it again into the planter next to the carports.

Furry eager faces peeked out at us from the trees. And yes, a particularly brave specimen actually sitting on the roof of my car! A hateful glance towards this particular feline must have been well-interpreted, as it took off in a flash of black fur and dust. Leaving paw prints all over the damn car. Of course. I tore off my mirror shades and strode up to the old lady. What the hell are you doing, feeding all these strays?

I decided that maybe logic would be a better ploy. She was looking at me pointedly, curiously, as if I were a square egg or a duck-billed platypus or something. This only enraged me more. She seemed suddenly to come to a decision, and a fresh smile appeared on her withered face. Animals do not belong outside, to romp around and create problems for the people that live here. Her old face was glistening with moisture, wrinkles filling like tiny little aqueducts.

As I jerked away I was disgusted to see a drip of snot emerging from one of her nostrils. As I commuted, I had an epiphany. Perhaps the right thing to do would be to feed these poor kittens. Maybe stop off at the market on the way home, and pick up a few tins of Sheba or Fancy Feast some other crap The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I would be doing my neighbors and the public at large a great service. I was roused from my reverie by a tap to my window. I jumped in surprise when I saw the old grizzled face of a street person leveling his tired gaze at me through the tint of the safety glass.

Who the hell put all these people here? Is their sole purpose to harass me? As the light changed and I sped off, I began for the first time considering Social Work. That was when the panic kicked in. The cops say I was in shock when they showed up. That I was sitting on the snow covered cement, knees tucked into my chest, rocking back and forth.

They say I was screaming. A man had been screaming non-stop for 20 minutes. A well-dressed man covered in blood, holding a knife. I remember my stock broker calling me, telling me I lost everything in the crash just 20 minutes earlier. I vaguely remember his apologies, and the sound of wind rushing through his Bluetooth headset as he flung himself from the rooftop of his building.

And I remember the homeless man rummaging through the dumpster in the alley, probably looking for some food. I remember his tattered yellow beanie was slightly skewed revealing his thinning silver hair, his faded olive colored jacket with the tear in the side exposing his dirty white flesh underneath, his filth encrusted jeans, the blackened flesh encasing his frostbitten toes juxtaposed against the crisp white snow. I remember him looking me in the eye and asking for some spare change. All he wanted was some spare change. It sat in a corner Rotting.

It reached a bony Hand toward me, I batted it away. I looked up and You were a Star Shining Thoughtlessly. I kept my Head down. The Life I had with You kept pace. It began to beat me. The more I cried, the harder it hit. It got me Drunk, I vomited. I looked around and you were Everyone. It grew many Arms, it slashed at my Wrists with Blades.

It held my Head underwater. The World danced in Waves. A solemn verse: what else could be expected from someone whose miracles were classified as destiny by the recipients? How else can you measure a miracle? The wind moves through the grass. The wind ages me. The rain drips from the house. The rain ages me.

Sleep breathes deeply. Sleep ages me. The moon cannot burn a tree down. It cannot eat a cow or cook a shrimp. But it ages me. The rabbits are marauding again, loose all through the house. This is not a good idea. They are cursed, or possessed, or ill. Where they go, they shit. It is best not to look too closely at their leavings. The pellets might take the shape of hanged men, of gods clothed in flesh hanging limp and broken from the crossbeams. I do not turn my head to glance at unusual movement — A rabbit deep in their voodoo chants will hover feet from the ground, somehow smug, self-satisfied, its tiny buck teeth glinting like arrowheads.

Rabbits engaged in debate turn nihilistic, Nietzschean. It is easy to walk away, to think you have won the argument only to find yourself hours later in the tiny Italian restaurant in the village, glaring disgusted at the teenagers. Do feed the rabbit, please, go ahead, it will not be satisfied. I like the fragmentary, the half-done, the unfinished, the abandoned. Not for me the cohesiveness of the completed. I prefer scattered showers to a day of rain, shards to panes, the dalliance to the marriage.

I would rather read the hormonal jottings of a fifteen year old girl than, say, the Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Building sites fill me with a special kind of joy. When I see newspaper blowing down a darkened alley, my heart is maddened with the uncomplicated beauty of it all. Then at night when I settle into my half-made bed with its sheets and blankets so expertly unravelled at the edges, I become enraptured with the ensuing collage of dreams and the way I tumble end over end into their exquisite unfinishedness.

The Black River moved east to the Red Sea as August crept in on soft hands, all before a lost tribe of clowns carrying cartoons and sacred images high above their heads close to the blue sky close to their desire.

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Calliope music beckoned them enter the cathedral that nestled under a grand mustard tree, as Mary Magdalene flew high above the center ring Saint Agnes recited the seven truths Lucifer blew fire and ice ending the world as predicted by Frost. Alice, their queen, kept watch Alice who knew the secret of grinning cats and wise caterpillars smoking dope high above the cathedral on tree limbs, purring to perfection in sitting meditation dreaming of dancing mice one minded mischief makers.

I remained silent and floated on to the Dead Sea, where blood drops become rose buds in bleeding hearts. Watching ash fall from the hand of an avatar snow flakes in August dusting me white as talcum after baptism. These wandering mysteries. These puzzlements of mind. Meditations on the nature of rivers and seas, breezes that dapple my mind in sunlight at midnight. Will you float with me On this river of grace? Belly button pointing toward heaven, umbilical eye staring into the mystery of love. All the poets he admired were opium eaters, laudanum users, sallow faced scarecrows tainted by sickroom visions of soul draining women and of death, wrote graphic verse in archaic forms, language so mannered it was a caricature of the lines he read aloud dressed as some kind of Beau Brummell on-the-way-to-a-funeral, sixties stoned retro that went with his affected Velvet Underground tone, a Lou Reed sound alike with the hint of a lisp and vampire lovers cold from the grave, thought the tepid response his work received meant no one got what he had to say rather than the obvious, that they did and they thought that it sucked; thought that chain smoking Gauloises and drinking until he puked, on stage and off, marked him as the genius he was meant to be instead of the drunk he would become.

Each wavelet is an echo of memory unclasping itself. I never understood loneliness as a child because the moon was always following me. Psychologists suggested that it takes about 28 tries before you can break a habit. The world is nothing more than water and want. The old marquee across from the pale yellow neighborhood church reads: Stupidity should be painful. Drinking too much coffee is the thread of most stupid acts.

Moonbathe until the Aurora Borealis drowns out the eventide. Atelophobia: Psychological neurosis: the fear of never being good enough, the fear of imperfection. Untitled I bought plum blossoms more for the name than for the color. I buy lipstick that way, too. The Broken by name withheld to protect The Broken dedicated to all the men who have not married me The Broken know who they are. They do things differently-they manage, they pass, they are even amazing in moments.

The moments don't last. The Broken are easily overcome by their brilliance and yours always looks better next to theirs because how can you be brilliant alone? The Broken, as they age, lose family members, rarely have plans on holidays, make do with the stuffy concerts on KCET where others go to their children's, their children's children's Christmas programs. The Broken sometimes ignore holidays altogether. They shop at the hour store on Thanksgiving Night, pretending it is the Thursday night previous. The Broken go to therapy, they attend groups, they have hobbies, post messages on their favorite fringe website.

LOUIS repeatedly instead of going out to a movie. Some of them draw or play the violin or flute. Sometimes they throw ceramic pots. Maybe they used to be good at archery, tennis, ice skating, but now, no.

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Not anymore. There's usually a long list of things they want to do but feel they can't. They work very hard at accepting their lot and after awhile they don't notice they are Broken. But they know who their fellows are--those neighborhood singles whose first name they know, the ones they wave to when they run into them at Top Value or the branch library.

These are the same ones who ride the bus on holidays, the other ones without family, the ones who carry the bus schedules for every route in the city. The Broken are. Sometimes an unexpected event happens. An Unbroken comes into a Broken's life and invites her to join him. She is suspicious. What does he want? Does he think she's easy? Is he trying to get something? Sometimes the Unbroken is temporarily Broken himself and knows that the True Broken will not judge him, may even help him repair. Even while she is sussing this out, her lifelong desire to join the Unbroken, to be partnered, to be a true familiar in a world of comfortable kitchens, kid homework, dairy field trip cow-milking and movie nights, 'sex on the beach'--' and I don't mean the drink--gets the better of her.

She dares to believe she has been chosen for herself.

Maybe the spell of The Broken has left. She still tries to hide all its earmarks around The Unbroken--those she is aware of anyway, or those she can try to keep under control for short periods fear of going without food, fear of looking like a dinosaur while chewing, fear of being unaccountably slapped or snapped at for saying something annoying, fear of being kissed without due preparation.

She feels she is semi-successful for a time. Things go well. She is invited to The Unbroken's home, she is invited to one of his members-only clubs, then--even as she wonders if The Unbroken girls get this same treatment or do they have a longer period of public events--she is too quickly only seen in private. And now it is only at The Unbroken's convenience--while he is working, in between his appointments, being given a courtesy ride to the bus station. No gifts are exchanged, unless they are from her, of course.

No more suggestions of fun things to do are mentioned, no questions about what she might like to do. No more, 'Maybe I could join you sometime,' when she mentions her nature walks, her hobbies, her private showings of rare kinescopes from the Dumont television network, non-existent since She wonders, do The Unbroken ever bring orchids to other Unbrokens as they seem to in old films? Nothing has been brought to her except peanut sauce for their chicken fried rice, but she appreciated this very much as it did require a special trip to an Asian grocer.

Then the visits become phone calls and they come less often, usually on a Sunday.

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There is an exchange of news, mostly the Unbroken's difficulties at being temporarily Broken. The Broken listens patiently, thinking, at least it's still a relationship with The Unbroken. It's still something enough to tell her friends, her Broken friends, about.

The friends remain impressed with the overall development and all choose to ignore its diminishing returns. One day the Unbroken sends a message to The Broken. He is telling about a birthday gift he has received from two young children the break-up of his family is part of his. He describes his consternation at receiving a piece of furniture 'which doesn't go with anything else' in his new bachelor quarters. He is not sure what to do and discusses it with a trusted advisor. The advisor humors him and tells him to put it in one telling it is a magazine rack, in another a hat rack, but it could be anything--an ottoman, a throw , on the wall and see it as a symbol of his new life.

Being a good sport he does that. The Broken thinks to herself that she is like this unfitting appliance. She also doesn't go with anything else in his pad or his life. He is trying to be a good sport and appreciate her anyway, but after awhile, the honorable advice forgotten, her ill-fitting nature cannot be ignored. He puts her aside as he eventually does—respectable display time over--the piece of furniture.

The Broken finds her own handmade furnishing hat stand, throw or lantern in a thrift store. Brokens most often shop in the neighborhood thrift store. She takes it home and arranges her own furniture around it. It goes fine with her things. It doesn't seem Broken in her home. She doesn't seem Broken in her home. And she doesn't seem Broken around her friends even though they are still Broken.

Maybe she's not Broken anymore. Maybe helping the Temporary Broken become Unbroken again made her Unbroken. The condition seems only to last as long as she stays away from him.

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If she tries to extend the friendship with the Unbroken past his 'setting aside' of her, she seems to become Broken again. If the Broken know anything, they know when their time is up. As the Temporary Unbroken, if she ignores anything she's learned times already the Broken often have to repeat experiences more than The Unbroken--they are slow to understand or maybe it is just too painful , she will probably become Broken again, possibly too Broken to repair. It is a rare Broken who can sustain the radically uncomfortable process of being made new.

You realized your body was two days older than it was two days ago, and so you cried because tears are fresh and young, and they render new stains on the carpet. You cursed your diva pink bangs for being too yuppie, your eyeliner was not heavy enough, your mascara too neat for grunge. Your breath was stinking of duck liver mousse, some un-American cheese product, and vegetable cracker the trans-fat free kind that takes a while to dissolve on your tongue.

You swore to never love again, but love again you would, and bruise again you do so easily because ripe garden plum looks good on you. You look just like her after coming out the shower, you think like her too and you feel the edge nearing. The miles come slowly but they come and go, and they call to you, and you to them. His fortune was made from sugar, And I would imagine From the plantation labor of slaves. I discern no guilt on his visage, But his fingers do point down. The painter achieved A royal appointment In , And died in I left it all; the paper and pens, publishers and agents who could not love my inner fantasy and joined the circus.

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  6. The make-up, big nose and fancy pants helped me overcome my feelings of obscurity. I created an identity grander than my literary art. I now have something worth writing about. I married the fat lady, she gave birth to a midget; I learned to swallow swords, made friends with a contortionist who told me to turn my pens into pretzels, and live like a real man.