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March 19, 2002
Carlton sat at the kitchen table with his mouth wide ajar, flicking his uvula around like a punching bag with his calloused index finger. He did this when he would’ve otherwise felt compelled to lie, for whatever reason. It beat biting his tounge. It felt less masochistic and more real. Carlton emitted a low-pitched “Ahhhhhh.” The TV flickered shades of blue. He craned his neck to peer out the window and see if the moon was full, or even just up. The moon put Carlton deeply at ease. He choked on the tip of his index finger. He laughed inside.