Constant. Sartorial. Wonderment.

But, Miss Ironbottom, I’m already wearing my P.E. clothes.


She’s not sure she likes your tone.

She’s not sure you get her, and she doubts you ever will.

She’s not sure she wants to make out with you in the closet anymore, down on the cement floor with the badminton set and the flag football belts and the mesh sack of dodgeballs.

She is afraid of being struck by a car while riding a bicycle and so always wears something that reflects the light.

Her mother was struck by a car while riding a bicycle.  She was wearing tweed.

She’s not sure who her father is.  All she has left of him is a mustache comb and a leather helmet with a label stitched inside that says “The Great Winkleton.”

She’s not sure what she wants to be, but human cannonball is high on the list.

She’s not sure you really love her.

You never said you did.

Suspender swimsuit in bicycle-safe, gunpowder-resistant silver lamé.



  Minta wrote @

This may be the funniest narrative I have ever read.

  giganticmag wrote @

so good

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