i suppose at one time in my life i might have had any number of stories, but now there is no other. this is the only story i will ever be able to tell. - the secret history
“It was heart-shaking. Glorious. Torches, dizziness, singing. Wolves howling around us and a bull bellowing in the dark. The river ran white. It was like a film in fast motion, the moon waxing and waning, clouds rushing across the sky. Vines grew from the ground so fast they twined up the trees like snakes; seasons passing in the wink of an eye, entire years for all I know…”
Does such a thing as ‘the fatal flaw’, that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn’t. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.
It’s all falling apart!
I’m erasing you, and I’m happy!
You did it to me first!
I can’t believe you did this to me.
Last night I went to Starbucks and when the guy finished my drink, he bent down and wispered, “Don’t let anyone dull your sparkle.” I just smiled and took my drink, and while I was leaving I heard the other worker saying: “WOULD YOU STOP TELLING PEOPLE THAT, NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR INSPERATIONAL SHIT!” and the guy responded with, “Gurl, there is no way in hell I am letting you dull my sparkle.”