Quick shag in chat room
Then they tied the [something] to the [something], hoped that they had removed the offending portion, and set her on a schedule of chemotherapy. They had left some of it and it had grown, it had come back, it had laid eggs, was stowed away, was stuck to the side of the spaceship. The wallpaper in the downstairs bathroom, though it came with the house, is the house's most telling decorative statement, featuring a pattern of fifteen or so slogans and expressions popular at the time of its installation. arranged so they unite and abut in intriguing combinations.
She had seemed good for a while, had done the chemo, had gotten the wigs, and then her hair had grown back darker, more brittle. The doctors did what they could, took the whole stomach out, connected what was left, this part to that, and sewed her back up, leaving the city as is, the colonists to their manifest destiny, their fossil fuels, their strip malls and suburban sprawl, and replaced the stomach with a tube and a portable external IV bag. She used to carry it with her, in a gray backpack it's futuristic-looking, like a synthetic ice pack crossed with those liquid food pouches engineered for space travel. We call it "the bag." My mother and I are watching TV. Her eyes, once small, sharp, intimidating, are now dull, yellow, droopy, strained the spitting gives them a look of constant exasperation. "Hmm," she says, then turns, lifts her head to spit. That-A-Way meets Way Out so that the A in That-A-Way creates A Way Out.
" "I was cutting my hair." "You were contemplating your navel." "Right. " "Yeah." I had not cleaned up, had actually left hair everywhere, twisted brown doodles drawn in the sink, but knew that my mother would not find out. Finally she moved to the couch, but even then, for a while at least, while spending most of her time on the couch, every night at 11 p.m.
Through the small tall bathroom window the December yard is gray and scratchy, the trees calligraphic. I walk down the hall, past the laundry room, and into the family room. It can be cupped around the mouth of a reclining person, just under the chin, in a way that allows the depositor of green bodily fluids to either raise one's head to spit directly into it, or to simply let the fluid dribble down, over his or her chin, and then into the receptacle waiting below. She walked down the stairs, shushing the green carpet, down to the foyer's black slate floor.
Exhaust from the dryer billows clumsily out from the house and up, breaking apart while tumbling into the white sky. I close the door behind me, muffling the rumbling of the small shoes in the dryer, Toph's. It was a great find, the half-moon plastic receptacle. " I ask my mother, walking past her, toward the kitchen. I get a popsicle from the refrigerator and come back to the family room. The front door was open, with only the screen door closed. She walked from the kitchen into the family room, where the curtains surrounding the large front window were open, and the light outside was white.
There is our latest couch, my father's, long and covered with something like tan-colored velour, and there is the chair next to the couch, which five years ago replaced the bloodoranges, a sofa-chair of brownish plaid, my mother's. But she wore her strength casually, had a trusting carelessness with her flesh and muscles.
In front of the couch is a coffee table made from a cross section of a tree, cut in such a way that the bark is still there, albeit heavily lacquered. She is used to the spitting, but still makes strained, soft vomiting noises. She would cut herself while slicing vegetables, cut the living shit out of her finger, usually her thumb, and it would bleed everywhere, on the tomatoes, the cutting board, in the sink, while we watched at her waist, awed, scared she would die.
But six months later she began to have pain again Was it indigestion? It's the show where young amateur athletes with day jobs in marketing and engineering compete in sports of strength and agility against male and female bodybuilders. The words are hand-rendered in stylized block letters, red and black against white.