Spitball Army

They fancy it up with lavender, rosewater or bacon, but I’d be content with a scoop of plain vanilla. Better yet: a glass of milk.

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The subtlety of Southern cooking, reflected In shades of fried grease.

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I had planned to shave and take a shower last night but I didn’t get it done. It’s all the night nurse’s fault.

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I had some good sunny-side eggs this morning and the weather outside is nice.

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The furry flesh breaks under her teeth. She Yum!’s, peach juice running down her chin. The cannibalistic likeness repulses him.

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Sent via e-mail.

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The pomegranate ones are the first to go, followed by cherry, raspberry, grape and orange. You can keep the chocolate and banana ones, says Ed.

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I. The old men sit on the porch, smoking, joking, drinking. A jar of peppers sits beside them. They dangle a jalapeno toward us, menacingly. II. My jalapeno memory is stoked by the sweet smell of its flesh. I refuse, unfooled. Not Carlos: he doesn’t feel pain, and takes the challenge.

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