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He’d never known how sick he was until he’d gotten health insurance.
Understanding that this was a problem of extreme privilege only made his irritation itself irritating.
She used to think the language of power was just a substitution cipher of shibboleths. But it was more like an insect language: dense pheromone clouds communicating fear and attraction, hunger and envy, have and not.
Her face needed a wipe; her thyroid pleaded for a sandwich, a glass of soy milk, a bong rip, anything to cushion this.
A luxury commodity that, for all its exclusivity, sure did a lot of advertising.
Cigarettes made ideal partners: they made you look good, let you be needy for five minutes before replacing them with another. Stimulation, orality, the breathplay of carbon monoxide. An unlit cigarette smelled like a raisin, a lit one like a cigarette, your fingers afterward like soy sauce. And yes, the romance of smoking was pure product placement, but it was still the sexiest way of hating yourself.
