read
write
members
about
account

 

datedatememberrandomsearch

January 29, 2005
Even though it's August, my sister and I wish we'd worn pants to our father's mother's house instead of shorts. We'd rather our legs sweated against cotton or even wool than against the slick, seamed plastic covering the sofa and chairs. But as it is, the backs of our thighs are sliding against the plastic. Drowning. We'd rather be in school than in this mothball-stinking hell.

We're only there for the black and white copybooks our school secretary grandmother gives us. But she makes us wait until the end of the visit to present them to us, the fucking sadist.