Nothing is a memory jogger like Worcestershire sauce on a hard-boiled egg and, oh, what a whiff it was: remembrances of childhood and Easter Sundays and the time I farted while gagging after I’d shoved too many eggs into my mouth. 126 more words
Tags » Dribblings
Somewhere, there’s a place where exotic belly dancers shimmy in hypnotic tempo to the supportive ululations of onlookers, where ribald pirates ask what do you do with a drunken pirate before launching into a heartfelt rendition of the Nine Inch Nails classic “Hurt”, where dancing artists twirl, and circus sideshow performers walk on broken glass, lie down on a bed of nails, and bend steel in their bare hands. 966 more words
Questions from this site: http://hoelder1in.org/Proust/fill_questionnaire.html
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
To be irrelevant and obsolete; unwanted and unloved.
Where would you like to live? 445 more words