“Barry,” my cousin Mike said, “I think it’s time.” It was clear that my brother didn’t feel the same way, but he only shrugged, which Mike took as agreement. “Dave,” he said, giving the words as much gravity as he could muster, “Go get the dictionary.” I was nine years old, and a tag-along. I’d walked in on my brother telling a story about how—during school that morning—a girl he knew got her period in the middle of French class. And I laughed like the dickens. And then they called me on it. After I’d lugged the dictionary down from the spare room, Mike told me to look up the word period and read out the definition. “The end of a cycle, a series of events, or a single action?” “Keep going,” he said. “The full pause with which a sentence closes?” “Not that.” “An interval of geologic—“ “Gimme that!” He yanked the book towards him, read down the page, and pointed me towards the definition he’d found. Menstruation: the monthly discharge of blood from the uterus of nonpregnant women from pu...
Comments
He was a quiet guy (kinda like Tien), but very peaceful (unlike Tien).
:)
In other news, the word verifications pictures are getting so obscure, I can't tell what the fuck letters to type!
I've kept in touch with everyone that I want to.
Maybe I'm just a bitch.
I've been told that.
That makes it easy to examine them.
I think I know a few men I'd like to try that out on.
I'd also like to find Ryan, who was Dustin's counterpart when I was in university, and who is the reason why I can still quote large chunks of Monty Python years later.
Oooh, my verification word is "lxfrqx." It's fun to say! Try it!
I'd like to talk to Todd Weltz, who was probably a premature birth, who was certainly a tiny little boy, who was my age and bright and smaller than anyone but a dwarf has a right to be; who was poor; whose mother went to bingo; whose older brother went to jail; and whom everyone called 'Toad'.
I'd like to know Cindy Shen forever.
I'd like to erase the years of divergence that have made Pat Bazinet and I mutually unintelligible.
I'd like to see Andy Davison. I'd like to see whether he still has a mohawk. But I know he doesn't.
I'd like to put my throbbing thing into Leslie Conning, just to take that smug look off her face. I'm not kidding.
I'd like to apologize in person to Jessica Salt, to whom I, with not insignificant goading, wrote a singularly obscene and horrifying letter in grade seven, and then I'd like to bury myself in her butt.
Well, what did you expect?
Steve Boyle, who I haven't seen since the wedding but whose bare ass is available to me any time on DVD.