I feel like a basketball being pushed past its inflation point. I’m right on the edge, and one more pump from one of those air pump thingies, and I’m going to burst.
This is the second time I’ve sped away from Anthony Sanders’s house, and there will not be a third! I should have known better than to come here, but I let myself be swindled by his little scheme and now it’s biting me in my ass – my oiled-up ass that is so uncomfortable now in my yoga pants.
I don’t care about the money. He could offer me ten million dollars to go back and I wouldn’t. Whatever crazy thoughts I had in my mind about him being a decent guy are gone now. Now that I’ve met his wife.
Maybe I could have been convinced to come back on a strictly professional basis if she hadn’t looked like a killer out of a horror
