My thunderbolt from heaven never came. Fifteen years would pass before God would manifest in righting the wrongs I longingly prayed resolved during my youth.
To say the subject of President Trumps "Make America Great Again," campaign motto has been discussed is a gross understatement of epic proportionality. Lauded and laughed at by some political sycophants occupying a side of the proverbial aisle. With a new election drawing ever closer, the question remains. Has Trump made America great again? And [...]
Toilets offer excellent cover for toddlers. Tubs a perfect trench, fiberglass-reinforced polyester concealed your young author as he cowered, crawling belly down beneath the bulkhead.
You ascend charcoal-colored stone steps, the refreshing breeze carries respite and the smell of tobacco. An ethereal sun-kissed Goddess holds your hand, enticing you to climb faster.
The dutiful son, dropped out of high school to run the farm and settle into a life that Hobson told his mother, "would end by shitting his pants and dying alone clutching a shotgun, soiled in the soy field." Hobson wasn't happy about his new path, his life would be lived the same as all the other Oklahoma dirt farmers. Hobson only returned to his high school one last time, he left the contents of his locker untouched, the only thing he went back for was Cassie Jones, the last person he would ever love.
My goal here is to inform the masses. Not to be preached too by a talking head on a local cable news network. Why are all drug stories told from the pathetic viewpoint of an addict? The sad sob story will not be said here!
The idyllic, sprawling, tropical landscape of Viñales was fading fast. The clandestine jungles would soon be replaced by the concrete jungle. We were not headed to a new city, we were headed to a new world. Havana was waiting.
I tugged at the corpse of this fried beast. It gave no notion of movement. The meat abstaining my pull, hot, lifeless, crispy. What had I done? Time, the most precious of resources, gone. I killed a fucking brisket.
At any point when the masses are capable of clutching the means of expression, they grasp for it, clutch in their grubby little poopy hands, and rip it to shreds.
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