She stops drawing and stares at me, my thumb

She stops drawing and stares at me, my thumb brushing over her mouth, fingers resting on her jaw. I lick my dry lips, tempted to set my mouth over hers, to fit them together as if

two strings were being tied together. i felt a tight pain in my stomach because words could'nt describe how i felt about her. i want to tell her how i feel but then again i dont

ermeneutical scholars. "Come grab a crunchy burrito and argue over obscure interpretations of gnostic texts!" In my clouded judgment, I had even made signs. She just couldn't

be the one the holy burito had foretold. But the extrapicey bean reading did not lie. Crepitus spoke through my bowel. Only I understood these ruminations, but true believers

spread the word of Crepitus to each and every porcelain throne in the Kingdom of Schat. It was the second coming of the beans that was the surprise. We thought it was all over but

It had only but just begun.

And "it" had only butt.

Or "derriere" as my grandmother called it. She was an aficionado, having judged the 1891 Winslow Arse Festival

Ultimately, there were no ifs, ands, or butts about it. She knew a perfect arse when she saw one. This one was a London-derriere.