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Months of violence and zero sexual action had fried my brain, because my core fluttered. Yes, I was turned on by a thumb.
Xerxes rasped softly, “I want to show you my nest.” My heart skipped a beat. I whispered softly, “Do you lay eggs?” Had I missed the signs all along? Was Xerxes part bird, part kitten?
In fact, a teacher had once told me, “You’re going to die someday in a violent, terrifying way.” To be fair, I’d made a farting noise with my armpit every time she’d spoken, and had spread a rumor that she shit in the shower.
Serenity wasn’t the absence of conflict; it was the stillness within chaos.
The worst part wasn’t the during; it was the after. Adrenaline got you through the moment, and when it left, nothing tempered the agony.
It was only four a.m., and I’d already survived an attempt on my life. A perverted ferret was the final straw.
Maybe that was what growing up was? Recognizing that it wouldn’t be all right unless you made it so. That sometimes you couldn’t do what you wanted to, only what you had to. Sometimes, the only person who could save you was yourself.
You knew things weren’t well when everyone started embracing.
It was amazing how when you’d thought you’d hit rock bottom, there was still farther to fall.
