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I swallowed thickly. “Are you venomous?” The fangs flashed as the snake’s head nodded. “Extremely so. Just a graze from one of my fangs would kill you in seconds.” “Wicked,” I said with awe. “Want to be friends?” I’d never had one.
famous last words
She screamed in my face—I screamed back. Oh, look, we’re harmonizing. Mozart would have loved this.
“Kid, I’m not a babysitter. I’m a full-time nanny, without any of the benefits of getting to kill people. My life is tragic.”
Free the nipple and the lips (vaginal)?
Sadly, the opportunity to join the Spartans giving fellatio—and not competing to literal death—did not present itself.
Mental note—physical exertion makes me homicidal. Avoid anything above a brisk walk.
Someone coughed up water (it was me).
My brain hurt as I tried to piece together the Latin words that were spoken in a random order and form them into sentences. It’s a dead language for a reason. Someone needs to kill it again. Also, whoever invented it should be stabbed twenty-three times in the back.
I closed my eyes and immediately fell into a peaceful, trancelike state. Just kidding—I fell asleep sitting up.
Augustus mumbled something about girls, dishonor, and the crucible. “Preach, girlfriend,” I mumbled back.
I let out the cry (aquatic moan) of my people.
Our future hinges on you getting the fuck up.” A man was speaking, so I stopped listening.
“Genuine question—what in the fuckity fuck fucker is wrong with you?”
“If you dare harm yourself,” he rasped softly, high cheekbones glinting like razor blades, “I’ll bring you back to life and torture you for all of eternity.”
Sometimes I cried in the water, sometimes I laughed, and once (three separate times) I flipped my curls over so I looked like a founding father and pretended to give a revolutionary speech—but each time, my speech was too good (the town sheriff shot me for insurrection, and I flailed dramatically in the shower—died—while my fellow rebels watched in horror).
Free the nipple, lips (vaginal), and sirens from sexual servitude.
you’ll gain access to the local symposium.” Where all the buxom sirens are subjugated? I’d rather not. Augustus continued, “There will be food at the symposium.” Sign me up. I’ve always wanted to meet the sirens. They sound like good, hardworking, big-breasted people.
“I’m so proud right now...this is the best day of my life. I knew you had it in you, bestie. Pussy power, crush the patriarchy! Don’t stop now—murder them all. KILL EVERYONE IN THIS ROOM!”
“My name is not Karen,” he spat with vitriol, like I’d gravely insulted him. “It’s pronounced Ch-ar-on.”
If I’d known all it would take was kneeing him in the crace (crotch, then face), I would have done it ages ago.
“Are you sure that’s a puppy? What’s wrong with its fur, and why is it so—lumpy?” God forbid someone be built a little different during an apocalypse.
What do they call reverse favoritism? Wait, isn’t that bullying? Do they have HR around here? I need to report him.
The siren was still butt-crack naked (free the nips and lips) and was now stacking a pile of knives in the middle of the table, which were apparently part of a card game? I was too scared to ask.
Apparently, I had a knack for performance theater (stripping). This feels like a very lucrative talent. I should pursue this.
Please God, bring me a new best friend. Make her less of a horny pervert. Thank you.
The free the nips (and lips) campaign was a mindset, not necessarily a reality.
