IT WAS LATE September, and a thin film of sawdust crept up between my toes as I made my way across the attic floor. The stale air felt cool for the first time in months, its dank smell redolent of mothballs and neglect. High in the rafters leaked the oily light of a solitary bulb, creating the atmosphere usually reserved for seedy pool halls.
I
(
Read more... )
Comments 3
...
my dad was a fatty and was bullied
and my mom was an interior designer who drank with the construction boys after work
Reply
basically, your mom is going to be me when i grow up. i have a thing for sensitive men.
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment