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Pink Floyd Being Drunk
It was 2:00 am.
But it was hot out.
The doors were open.
Roger, Rick, Dave, Syd and Nick sat around the living room.
And they were all shit-faced drunk.
"And then, right in the middle of the ring was this wad of gum that my marble was stuck to!!" Nick was flopped over the arm of the sofa, telling stories about his childhood.
None of them made much sense.
"You fucking sucked at marbles, anyways, Nick," Dave crowed, finding this extremely amusing. He was sprawled over the couch, too, with his head on Nick's stomach and his legs over Rick's lap. Rick had Dave's pant-leg up and was pulling at his socks.
"Dave, you suck at everything," Roger spat, taking another swig of beer and another drag on his smoke. He was sitting on the couch across from Dave, Rick and Nick. Syd was lying upside-down over the side of the couch next to him singing something. Every once in a while, he decided to grab Roger's toes, which would usually earn him a swift but ineffective kick in his direction.
"If you don't
Where Is My Little Lost Kitty?
I opened the door and looked out into the night.
Smiled at the setting sun was almost gone over the horizon.
I stepped out onto the porch and called for my kitten.
My kitten, my adorable, sweet kitten that I loved dearly.
He had been the inspiration for my life, and my career.
I found him showing up in my art, popping up everywhere.
My sweet, beautiful kitty.
I loved when he walked across the piano keys.
It was never like when a normal cat does it.
When my kitten did it, it sounded like music.
Sweet, pretty notes that came from his little paws when he moved.
I listened with joy whenever he "played."
As I scanned the road, I became worried.
Where was my cat?
I called again, unhappily looking around for him.
My beautiful kitty, adorable kitten, was gone.
Where could he be?
Was he lost?
I called again, frantically, but he was nowhere to be seen.
"Where are you?" I called, sadly.
But he didn't come.
Tears came to my eyes as I finally found the truth.
He was gone.
My kitten, my cat, my swee
1420 MHzHe keeps a list wadded in the depths of his front, left pocket: where he holds his keys, and the forgotten/abandoned shell of a lone pistachio. The list is his biography, written in the shape of Argentine Spanish:
Me gustan los tomates en verano.
Yo amo a mi novio.
Nos besamos. (Mi novio chupa mis dedos de los pies.)
Las estrellas cantan sus canciones.
Mi nombre no es Eduardo.
Vivo con Jacobi ahora.
His pants are wadded, now, on summer-warmed hardwood; his shirt is draped over the back of a cane-back chair, the most incongruous of antiques in Jacobi’s tech-nerd lair. Headphones clamp his ears, and fill his head with the lisping whisper of interstellar hydrogen, broadcasting itself at a neat 1420 MHz. Bedroom is the wrong word for a place like this, despite the sorts of furnishings one might expect. There is a bed, a dresser, a bookshelf and two nightstands cramped with magazines, graphic novels. An alarm clock
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More