Chapter Nineteen
Anyhooo, in an insane Pentecostal American life which made no sense to me, marriage, kids, mortgages, PTA’s, lie’s, deceit, some f**k wad tired of f*****g you, now that was crazy.
You know, banging the gal at the bowling alley, bad ratted hair like Sarah Palin.
You know.
Click, click, click on three inch heels, man-made t**s, bee hive, balancing a tray of vodka gimlets and too much eye liner and mascara on raccoon eyes.
Typical MO, some bimbo outta Perth Amboy thinking a bottle of bleach and Pamela Anderson t**s was the bong.
After, her legs are thrown to the air at the Paradise Motel, neon sign-missing some light bulbs as your husband butt-f***s her. He then buys her a cheap gold plated locket with a picture of himself in it. It’s the oldest story in the book and al
