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I knew it had to be something other than my period or my old thong, and sure enough it was my blood-soaked sock that I smelled. Outside the sky was gray and the buildings were black and the rain hit the window like tears and what a day I had walking through the crowds and police quietly asking them to experience the blood of the lamb, the fluids of the Lord, and what an old perv that priest was, his flappy thing underneath the big book I held but all would be forgiven, Steven. Yes, it was huge and flaccid making it nothing more than flesh, ugly flesh, soil American soil, I don't miss my parents at all except in deli's and once when I stood there in Times Square the last time the barbed wire was too tight. That family with the little girl. That was it. Once again, like three times a month, I put the barbed wire on too tight. Like now. Goddamn it. I carefully unwound the barbed wire from my still petite ankle and then did what Father Flaccid told me to do each and every time I wound the celebration too tight. I wrung the sock out in a glass and added two shots of Jack, a lemon twist, and just a touch of Tabasco and drank of the Lord in celebration of the blood of the lamb. Flesh, American, Flesh. Just another Opus Dai.
Date Written: May 12, 2006
Average Vote: 4