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The universe has a marvelous way of maintaining eye contact before it spits in your face. Gracefully, carefully, it whispers sweet somethings and then pins me down and hocks its bile before my smile can break.

Destiny, manifest before me as something more than a kerfuffle of clusterfucks.

If I could, I would renounce my womanhood, hang up my pussy and my tits on a coatrack next to my soiled integrity.

Oh I've tried to quit my round-robin mind fuck, to give opportunities a chance to wet my pussy-

But The Lord said no, He said I was supposed to wait for you to finish up in the backroom.

So it's hopeless and I accept defeat. I'm sure you'll come around and I'm sure you'll never stay.

If only dildos could carry a conversation, I'd have a chance at erotic salvation.


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'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…