Plathological

casual deals

I think it’d be best for me to know you through the process of elimination, naming the hurricanes with the ordered letters of ethnic personas that have gentle, silver hair and a walking stick before they ever reach land with all that diminished force--that one never hit as they thought it would. Last night so exacting with my gin—I’ve one way of pouring it and it’s not because I’m a creature of habit. No choice but to take the half off discount on a gray wool-silk jacket—I was stuck in its jammed double zipper, no choice but to walk out with new outerwear. I’ve already helped a guy today with the same zipper problem, the sales girl said. I can’t help you. Are you trying to enforce the fact that you aren’t a lesbian and are therefore declining to fumble around with the zipper of my soon to be new jacket that you will give me at half price, or are you trying to illuminate me on the fine line between lazy-useless and useless-couture? Because it’s still kind of blurred. And, as you may not know, the large black button of the Dior jacket I tried on earlier came right off in my hand. Since I barely touched it before it crumbled off, I didn’t feel the need to say anything, and slipped it into the pocket of the green leather raincoat that also hung in the same change room. It should still be there if you want to reattach the clasping device. Or, you can give me the Dior at half off, too. Fucking. Cuntwhore. To my glee, we got all dad-like and took pliers to the double zipper, three hours later, and my new gray jacket can now live a charmed life on my body--coming on and off at my will. If you need me, I'll be right here, in the strange land of Grateful and Gloating.