A Weekend In M.J.
I was born a prisoner in your dungeon of fish Solitary confinement underneath your dress. I could be your snaggle tooth whore, your cross eyed hooker, or your hair-lip courtezan. We could dance in the rain wearing only bread bags on our feet. Over lunch we could discuss the relationship between wonton soup and brains. We would make love like declawed cats and argue like ducks guarding their...
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