Jackson
If Peggy and Becca turn up, a dozen kabobs are bound to rematerialize as pulpy orange puke.
Ever since I roared out of town in my dad's company car with a walletful of pilfered twenties, nothing's changed but the look of things. Jackson's park is dead. Nobody ages like wine. My mother is 55 and wearing a wig; my father is bespectacled and mostly-senile. They still have lots of sex, but that means shit when it comes to happiness. They live in the Berber carpet capital of the world, where wall-to-wall carpeting is tough as nails and never shows footprints. Nobody knows this save...
Sorry, but comments are disabled for this article.