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“Youth is a wonderful thing,” said Mr. Harrigan. “What a shame it’s wasted on children.”
Dad told me stories that weren’t about party telephone lines, or going to a one-room school where there was just a woodstove for heat, or TVs that only got the three stations (and none at all if the wind blew down the roof antenna).
He snickered, took the can, downed half of it, then belched. Down the hall, his girlfriend stuck a finger in her mouth and mimed puking. Love in high school is very sophisticated.
Maury Povich is currently strutting around and inciting his studio audience. She may have low tastes, but not that low.
On the TV, Maury has been replaced by a dancing bottle of diarrhea medicine. Which in Holly’s opinion is actually an improvement.
Sadness is catching, and how poopy is that?
Killing children for God, or ideology, or both—no hell could be hot enough for those who’d do such things.
Amusement was a fairly shitty way to feel, given the circumstances, but a person’s interior landscape was sometimes—often, even—fairly shitty.
