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It started as a joke. I ended in a fix.

There's nothing funny about a Vietnamese whore.

That would be my epitaph, had I the foresight (and money) to choose it. But this globalization fantasy of mine was now verging on imperialism. The political undertones grew palpable.

I loathe to discuss the intricate details of my master plan, the inception of which I cannot quite pinpoint out of fear the memories will bring me too close, once again, to the shallow backyard pool of my good friend, whose girlfriend at the time unknowingly launched this escapade.

Do you want to know more? I do too. But only in pieces. In fragments.

My memories were but stool samples: extracted, studied, and discarded. But one, and one alone, would not flush.

I'd tried to seduce her in vain. She mustered up the strength to repel me. But out of the struggle grew an affliction. An untoward longing for East Asian companionship.

I grow tired of these brothels. I do not like my new job. My new eyes are not accepted by the remainder of my face. I do not like what I have become.

Date Written: December 14, 2004
Author: Turgid
Average Vote: 3

12/31/2004 Cyrus (3): Sketchy. Needs to be filled in. Also "I ended" "I loathe"? I have to agree there is nothing funny about a vietnamese whore...but there should have been.
12/31/2004 Streifenbeuteldachs (3): This short reads like the mulatto love child of Nevil Shute and Toni Morrison.
01/1/2005 The Rid (2): Mluh. Starts so promisingly, but after the third graf, this thing goes awry. Or as scoop would say, "You really fucked the pooch on this one."
01/1/2005 Streifenbeuteldachs: You're right, I'm a star too high.
01/2/2005 cuntry (4): wish you'd lose the last line, and maybe much of the middle, but i like it. "my memories were stool samples". nice.