My Misery Is Reaching Epidemic Proportions.

In The End, I Take My Shoes Off And Stick My Feet In, Letting The Lukewarm Water Lick At My Ankles. It Feels Good, And Not Just Because I’m Stoned. I Make A Mental Note To Add This To Dulcie’s List Of Things Worth Living For. For Some Reason, I Keep Seeing Her Rolling Her Eyes At Me, That Big, Goofy Grin Stretching Her Face Like Silly Putty. On My Private List, I Add Her Smile. She Doesn’t Have To Know.

One Could Argue That It's Romantic To Die For Love. Of Course, Then You're Dead And Unable To Take That Honeymoon Trip To The Alps With All The Other Fashionable Young Couples, Which Is A Shame.

Oh, Hello," Dr. M Says, Shaking Balder's Hand. "wonderful Costume. I'm A Bit Of A Role Player Myself On The Weekends. Tell Me, Where Did You Get The Helmet?" It Was Forged In The North, Blessed By The Hands Of Odin, Given To Me By My Mother, Frigg," Balder Answers. Lovely. I Got Mine On The Internet.

Hey,” The Cabbie Yelled. “how’s About A Tip?” “you Bet-ski,” Evie Said, Heading Toward The Old Victorian Mansion, Her Long Silk Scarf Trailing Behind Her. “don’t Kiss Strange Men In Penn Station.

Evie Hadn’t Always Felt That Way. For A Year After James Had Died, She’d Cupped His Half-dollar Pendant Between Her Pressed Palms And Prayed Fervently For A Miracle, For A Telegram That Would Say Good News! It Was A Terrible Mistake, And Private James Xavier O’neill Has Been Found, Safe, In A Farmhouse In France. But No Such Telegram Ever Arrived, And Whatever Possible Faith Might Have Bloomed In Evie Withered And Died. Now She Saw It As Just Another Advertisement For A Life That Belonged To A Previous Generation And Held No Meaning For Hers.