Don't suck, don't die

Don't suck, don't die

Language: English

Pages: 200

ISBN: 147731136X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Welcome to My Breakdown: A Memoir

Alan Turing: The Enigma: The Book That Inspired the Film "The Imitation Game"

Nelson Mandela: "No Easy Walk to Freedom"

Lives of the Romans

Big Papi: My Story of Big Dreams and Big Hits














at a poster. The theater marquee didn’t have our names on it that night. Instead, it read, “SINDERELLA, The Naughty Fairy Tale.” “The fuck?” you asked, wheeling up under it. “I dunno.” I squinted at the poster through scratched plexi-glass. “Oh, here we go: ‘Sinderella, the naughty fairy tale,’” I read. “‘An evening of chivalrous debauchery and decadent nastiness.’” Your blank stare. “Gross,” I added. Your wheels turning. The ones on your chair and the ones in your head. “I’m going to the prop

can rolled down the aisle and she chased it, still laughing. “They are amazing,” I said, with much concern. As far as I knew, that crumpled snapshot was a gone moment, banished as it was to the motel room in my amygdala, but looking at Billy still hurt. Tried to see him in the future as my broken-down house, the one I belonged in, that nobody else would even look at, but he wouldn’t stop shining. Same as walking away. “Look at ’em, they’re trying to feed us cuz we’re too dumb to feed ourselves.”

one. Yer about as ugly as that old donut dumpster dog. In the lips.” “Six-Million-Dollar-Man-Steve-Austin?” “Lee Majors.” I nodded, back in time for a moment. “I remember him.” I didn’t really, though. I remember that there was a three-legged dog and a donut, but I saw only the cutting wind of Billy’s green stare. Got lost in it for a minute; a disconcertingly right place to be, like a mountaintop, a manic ocean. Shook it off. Pulling my top lip out to illustrate, I shifted it to the left and

fairly friendly face: “I GOT A DI-VO-RCE!!” And divorce had three syllables, if not four, of course. This was all the opposite of that diner morning on a midwestern highway. Who knows what will sparkle on this earth? Half-empty ramekins of grape jelly and runnels of snow. All of it gone. I tried to imagine the agony of losing an elaborate human like Tina Chesnutt. You had no painkiller any more, no reason to live. I knew that’d be a chasm, but I could barely peer down into it. And there you

could hear your hated and beloved books: paperbacks your junkie lumberjack friends’d make you read just to hear you whine about pretense and unfounded security. And the old, old, falling-apart hardcovers you’d rattle on about: their grasp of indecency and fortitude, our universal weakness and susceptibility to love lost and weather and societal convention. Which, miraculously, still had you by the throat somehow. Old when we were young, you remained out of time the whole time you were here. We

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