I believe I was the first to blow my firing squad a kiss.
Pucker up, lovelies, if you have lips.
Lips were introduced on Model 4501. They’re molded plastic, in Mamie Eisenhower pink. Someone on the fabrication team must have had a thing for his mother.
There is no worse prison than a prison run by nuns. If you are thinking I am talking about yardstick nuns, you are wrong. Those are Past Nuns. These are Future Nuns.
But the story of Perpetua spread, quiet as a church mouse, from convent to convent until one-by-one, nuns began to lose their composure, began straining to hear the sound of a single Harley prowling the neighborhood late at night. Their desires were answered by sleepless nights of seemingly eternal silence.
Holding the bottle of invisible ink, I told him: “This is not my color.”
I’d made it too far by then to be caught by some barely grown soldier with an untidy hair garden on his upper lip.
Even my shadows couldn’t keep up with me.
They’d been following me from Montreal; two thick-mustached men who thought I wouldn’t notice they had no bags on a transatlantic trip.
I have found that secrets are best kept when your gown is bundled at the bottom of the bed. They don’t need to know who you work for, where you’re really from — or that your teeth aren’t real. My replacements are perfect, lined up in my mouth like a picket fence. They can […]