How she got her name was because of all the love letters, obviously.
The problem was, when you’re sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, there is nothing worse than an unwanted crush.
With silent feet steps she pranced with jolly to the top of the yellow slide before we even noticed.
“Of course you have to go, you little girl man,” we egged the virgin one of us on.
It almost doesn’t matter how much dirt there was under her fingernails.
The cornfield, a vast web of that which threads nightmares.
Fantastic burnt language. I love these sentences. Thank you, Randy!
