(no subject)
He plugged that child rapist full of red bullets on the staircase in the best theatrical reality showdown I have ever seen. The drunk man in love yelling give me back my baby and the playwrite confessing "oh! dear sir, do stop, this pain is rather excruciating!" More bullets. The rapist crawls into his own bed bleeding from the gaping wounds all over his chest and wraps the covers tight. This is my favorite part. His face half blown off and the flies that came to settle. What do I do now? Blow my own head off? the story is over. Ok. Can I tell you the truth here?...To step back just a few pages...That's when I began my sobbings.
"My Dolly, my folly! Her eyes were vair,
And never closed when I kissed her.
Know an old perfume called Soleil Vert?
Are you from Paris, mister?
My car is limping, Dolores Haze,
And the last long lap is the hardest,
And I shall be dumped where the weed decays,
And the rest is rust and stardust."
I feel I'm being swindled by my own Lolita. What if my Lolita doesn't love me anymore? I don't even own a handgun. but nevermore, whatever my ways I would relinquish myself in the required debonair manner that proved that I was surely one of the truest lovers to wield a shinning knife or fantastic weapon or...gee...who am I kidding. I would never do such a brash and unruly thing. vile nature of too much fiction before bedtime makes a girl a bit out of sorts. My apologies, I assure.
"My Dolly, my folly! Her eyes were vair,
And never closed when I kissed her.
Know an old perfume called Soleil Vert?
Are you from Paris, mister?
My car is limping, Dolores Haze,
And the last long lap is the hardest,
And I shall be dumped where the weed decays,
And the rest is rust and stardust."
I feel I'm being swindled by my own Lolita. What if my Lolita doesn't love me anymore? I don't even own a handgun. but nevermore, whatever my ways I would relinquish myself in the required debonair manner that proved that I was surely one of the truest lovers to wield a shinning knife or fantastic weapon or...gee...who am I kidding. I would never do such a brash and unruly thing. vile nature of too much fiction before bedtime makes a girl a bit out of sorts. My apologies, I assure.