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PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!...is

  • PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!...is bread in French.
  • The French love their pain all right. Pain with cheese. Pain with meat. Pain with vegetables and more cheese. I loved to
  • travel to France as often as I could, just to experience their different types of pain. My favorite little pain café was right off of Rue Saint-Denis. There, you can get the most
  • flagrant types of le petit morte, administered by slick latex androgynoues seeping nonchalant violence. Outside, greasy pain dealers loitered, clutching illegal algogenies.
  • Such is the life outside 7-11 in Hampsburg, Virginia. All I wanted was a pack of smokes, a Coke Zero and those pizza flavored pretzel roll things. You see, I'd just quit my
  • job to hike across the country with my dead girlfriend's ashes in my pack, scattering a few here and there. She wanted to travel in life but never could, so I figured this was
  • the appropriate way of dealing with them. It was sad, really. I let my Dad know. "There are other fish in the sea," he choked over the phone. He was right. As I was hitchhiking
  • to visit Beijing Aquarium I couldn't help but think about my dad being deeply hurt by the whole experience. The truck turned off the
  • the highway onto a dark road which led me straight into a village of pygmy mongoloids. They took me in, fed me, and let me have my way with their sheep. I stayed for a week, and
  • Ate the best venison stew ever, made by a 90 year old grandmother who had made the same venison stew since age 16! She walked without a cane and faster than me!

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