you make me use words that taste like vending machine pickles. words with calloused elbows in sweat shops fabricating rips in the knees of my bargain bin cargos.
words no one ever gets away with.
The Countess: All of us are freaks in one way or another. Try being born a male Russian Countess into a white, middle class, Baptist family in Mississippi, and you'll see what I mean.