Ricelita, Part 1, Chp. 6 I feel like a schoolgirl myself. Tiny birds flap about in my gut when she is near. I remember that first day, that first day I fell in hopelessly in love. She sat in the seat third-nearest the front, in the second column, her eyes lowered. I called roll, name by name; fidgeting, yearning to learn her name. I reach the fateful "M"s. "Katrice Marroquin," I call. "Here," she says feebly, not even looking up. I forget today's lesson.Ricelita, Part 1, Chp. 6
Ricelita, Part 1, Chp. 5 So I found myself at America's Golden Coast, and I could hardly ait to reach those beach-blonded nymphets. I had to cross those Great Sierra Nevadas, all the while fantasizing that I, Blanchard the Great White Hunter, would return to his cabin to find a youngin' tryin' to steal herself some grub, and how then a Grizzly Blanchard would soon devour the little Goldilocks. Have I mentioned I'm prone to car accidents? Anyhow, after I made that perilous trip down the mountainside, and through the foothills, I met with a shanty, not-so-liRicelita, Part 1, Chp. 5
Ricelita, Part 1, Chp. 4 I cannot implore my readers to delve themselves into my damaged psyche, but I shall ask them to dip their big toe in, but I warn you, the water is cold. My mecca to California, (land of gold, land of nymphets), was not a whim. I traveled across the country with much wanderlust and little money. I had worked as a teacher's assistant in a small Tennessean school for girls, many years ago now. As Blanchard the Assistant, I was given two tasks, essentially: yard duty and punishment. I'd monitor the yard and protect it's free-range gRicelita, Part 1, Chp. 4
Ricelita: Part 1, Chp. 3 Roberta was not unlike me. Quiet and morose. She was 5 months away from my being 13. Her father supplied mine with soap. She had a relaxed quality about her that seemed to beckon sleep upon any whom she interacted with. Her voice was so scarce as to be a wind's whisper; and the lips that it eminated from, those lips were only the faintest shade more of pink than the rest of her pale milk face. By their contrast, her dark eyes penetrated her face, and seems to be portals into something hollow. Of all dumb Blanchard Blanchard's mistakes, oRicelita: Part 1, Chp. 3
I'm official dead
Regretful
=]
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:I'm Dead as Dead can be, and the DOCtor tels me, "I just can't beleive him.";
Laughter is like Slaughter but without the 'S'
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Biohazardous Productions © 2008
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Strap-Ons and Cone Bras
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Is it true that there's a point on a man's head where if you shoot it, it will blow up?
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We break our heads learning French or English and look for Americans to explain the mysteries of slang to us so as not to inconvenience them by speaking proper English.
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Strap-Ons and Cone Bras
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We break our heads learning French or English and look for Americans to explain the mysteries of slang to us so as not to inconvenience them by speaking proper English.
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Fuck normality, its over-rated and boring.
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