If embroiled once again in the minueta of "As The Town Turns,” and it is by oversaturation or self imposed mutiny that I bid adieu, It is only a matter of time before I get jonesing for a good Long Beach summer night .
Many a year can pass, but I can close my eyes and recall the names of who’s in line to play pool at The Reno Room on a Thursday night. Lean to the left and I can hear music and recognize the voices as if a decade and a handful hadn’t passed. Still waiting for mine on the jukebox, so crammed full of dollars that it wails Tom Jones’ again and again until the whole building is quaking in chorus for Delilah’s response. A handful of regulars remain, ignoring the bouncers as they herd off the patrons. They finish their drink as the girls count their tips, and its around 2:42 am.
By then, the tweekers have locked up at one of a dozen dens, flipping glances through the blinds as they wait for no one to crash through the door. The die hard race and slalom for afterbeers while some head straight home. The night ticks away as many await the 6 a.m. Bloody Mary, and the booty calls slow with the compromising of standards in the early a.m. The taxis slow, the streets settle, and the town quiets down to couple, snuggle, and sire what will be fodder and fact for the masses to meander over the next week.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Summer 1997
The girls from Sacramento moved into the middle bungalow when I lived in the front of the Compound. Being the front house, I was meet and greet duty, and was able to distract the unwelcome, the overbearing or the belligerent by inviting into my place.
The girl in the cottage before Donnie was from San Pedro, and figured she will be a super real punker chick now that she has moved to Long Beach. She also fronted an all girl band, and within the first month had her reluctant guitarist/artist installed in the house to her left. The artist brought her best girl party friend, who kept us all in gossip and scandal until she had one too many and had to be run outta town. To balance party girl’s misogyny, they set up drummer girl in the last spot on our side. Such a sweetheart, The Norwegian, such a good girl. She turned out to be punker than the rest. She was a preschool teacher at her church. She held us to her scale of morality and virtue. To add some sunshine, the girls in the middle rounded out the Compound, bringing us a fresh faced, 18-year-old small town glee.
For that first year, our inter-habitation among the Compound blended so smoothly, when visitors came for one or another, it was etiquette to pop in all the pads. Guests would trail along to the next house for a beer, knock on one door for a cigarette, and check on the party girl to see how she was feeling from the night before. You could head to the back for a bong load, then back to the front house, where I was always prepared to entertain, and entertain we did- any and every according to their preference of hospitality. The Compound was estrogen ruled. One time or another everyone six degrees separated from another spent some quality time in or about one of the cottages. Many a night, if chemically challenged, one of the couches each of us had outside (these were TINY cottages) had a sleepover guest. It got a little out of hand.
The girl in the cottage before Donnie was from San Pedro, and figured she will be a super real punker chick now that she has moved to Long Beach. She also fronted an all girl band, and within the first month had her reluctant guitarist/artist installed in the house to her left. The artist brought her best girl party friend, who kept us all in gossip and scandal until she had one too many and had to be run outta town. To balance party girl’s misogyny, they set up drummer girl in the last spot on our side. Such a sweetheart, The Norwegian, such a good girl. She turned out to be punker than the rest. She was a preschool teacher at her church. She held us to her scale of morality and virtue. To add some sunshine, the girls in the middle rounded out the Compound, bringing us a fresh faced, 18-year-old small town glee.
For that first year, our inter-habitation among the Compound blended so smoothly, when visitors came for one or another, it was etiquette to pop in all the pads. Guests would trail along to the next house for a beer, knock on one door for a cigarette, and check on the party girl to see how she was feeling from the night before. You could head to the back for a bong load, then back to the front house, where I was always prepared to entertain, and entertain we did- any and every according to their preference of hospitality. The Compound was estrogen ruled. One time or another everyone six degrees separated from another spent some quality time in or about one of the cottages. Many a night, if chemically challenged, one of the couches each of us had outside (these were TINY cottages) had a sleepover guest. It got a little out of hand.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Mid 1970's
Uncle Fernando was nothing like his brother. For starters, he had LONG HAIR. And he was a MUSICIAN.
He lived in the Pacific Northwest, far from the eyes of his family and farther from their expectations. On one visit we arrived very late in the evening, our parents having driven through the night. My sister and I slept through the long drive, yet I awoke before her, and listened to them speculate as they often did. I didn't understand what "hippie" meant, but the tone from my mother suggested I should be frightened of him, or rather, their impression of him.
He lived freely, as if a part of a collective where one could dance barefoot to bongos and tamborines. We arrived to a whirlwind of tie-dye wafting as Uncle Fernando’s wayward companions hefted amps and speakers and smoked on cigarettes that smelled of over ripened fruit. I hummed in anticipation as the room bristled with life upon plugging in. Tired and exasperated, Dad and Mom cautiously perched with my sister and I on each lap. They looked uncomfortable and whispered for us not to touch or eat ANYTHING and NO COOKIES. The brothers had not seen each other in years, for Fernando had hit the road when his brother returned from Vietnam.They looked so much alike, and still looked so different.
Fernando embraced the subculture of the 60's, in sharp contrast to the structure and duty his brother held first as a soldier, and now.as a husband and father. Their family and lives had changed since 1968. Upon arriving and greeting his smiling, stoned brother, my dad looked much older than his young age. Fernando dripped of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. He was surrounded by breezy young girls, patchouli scented and braless. Fernando winked and whistled as his band jammed for hours on end.
My sister and I cheered and screamed between songs, and ended the show alongside the band. With tambourines of our own, our Uncle pulling us from the grips of our parents to dance and get a feel for being center stage. It felt warm and inviting and the cookies tasted just fine.
He lived in the Pacific Northwest, far from the eyes of his family and farther from their expectations. On one visit we arrived very late in the evening, our parents having driven through the night. My sister and I slept through the long drive, yet I awoke before her, and listened to them speculate as they often did. I didn't understand what "hippie" meant, but the tone from my mother suggested I should be frightened of him, or rather, their impression of him.
He lived freely, as if a part of a collective where one could dance barefoot to bongos and tamborines. We arrived to a whirlwind of tie-dye wafting as Uncle Fernando’s wayward companions hefted amps and speakers and smoked on cigarettes that smelled of over ripened fruit. I hummed in anticipation as the room bristled with life upon plugging in. Tired and exasperated, Dad and Mom cautiously perched with my sister and I on each lap. They looked uncomfortable and whispered for us not to touch or eat ANYTHING and NO COOKIES. The brothers had not seen each other in years, for Fernando had hit the road when his brother returned from Vietnam.They looked so much alike, and still looked so different.
Fernando embraced the subculture of the 60's, in sharp contrast to the structure and duty his brother held first as a soldier, and now.as a husband and father. Their family and lives had changed since 1968. Upon arriving and greeting his smiling, stoned brother, my dad looked much older than his young age. Fernando dripped of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. He was surrounded by breezy young girls, patchouli scented and braless. Fernando winked and whistled as his band jammed for hours on end.
My sister and I cheered and screamed between songs, and ended the show alongside the band. With tambourines of our own, our Uncle pulling us from the grips of our parents to dance and get a feel for being center stage. It felt warm and inviting and the cookies tasted just fine.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Love 2002
They thought that the two would fall in love on the first date, a BLIND one to boot. They were RIGHT, he and The Queen were perfect for each other. And as quick as it was, it was over. Again and again and again......
First Love happens when you are young and unfettered. Not three or six relationships deep in failure. Early on as a teenager, when crying and tantrums and 18 hour make-outs seem so grown up.
They were far from unfettered. No longer teenagers, they tried at love miserably. The relationship ended over the course of two years, leaving a sloppy stained puddle of love and passion and partying and nonsense. He did not help matters.
Yet this was The Queen's Own Love. It Was CERTAINLY not First Love, yet IT CERTAINLY was her Own Love. This is prologue to the messy marriage to the BBD, remember? The Queen gallivanting herself into the mess with the Love, The Best Friend, The First Love of The Best Friend and Her? The mutinied BFF’s forged an alliance? The Queen's come uppance? You get the picture.
Truth be told, her Own Love & BBD shared a pseudo-BFF status known throughout the male world as the "BRO". Hence, “BRO’s before HO’s”.
Infantile, yes. Albeit A Code of their own.
Again, how dare her.
First Love happens when you are young and unfettered. Not three or six relationships deep in failure. Early on as a teenager, when crying and tantrums and 18 hour make-outs seem so grown up.
They were far from unfettered. No longer teenagers, they tried at love miserably. The relationship ended over the course of two years, leaving a sloppy stained puddle of love and passion and partying and nonsense. He did not help matters.
Yet this was The Queen's Own Love. It Was CERTAINLY not First Love, yet IT CERTAINLY was her Own Love. This is prologue to the messy marriage to the BBD, remember? The Queen gallivanting herself into the mess with the Love, The Best Friend, The First Love of The Best Friend and Her? The mutinied BFF’s forged an alliance? The Queen's come uppance? You get the picture.
Truth be told, her Own Love & BBD shared a pseudo-BFF status known throughout the male world as the "BRO". Hence, “BRO’s before HO’s”.
Infantile, yes. Albeit A Code of their own.
Again, how dare her.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Summertime 1966
The Queen was conceived in the Age of Aquarius. In Sunny Southern California, South Bay proper.
As the summers of love swept up those ready for some times to a'change, the barefoot beauty walking the sand took no heed of the churning and percolating of the world around her. With wars being raged, radicals uncaged, and demonstrations staged, she had but one thing on her mind. She was knocked up at the juicy and tender age of 16.
She had a beau, a boy from around the block who was far, far away in the jungle. His letters were a constant, just as his presence had been since they were children. His longing for her love was what he lived for, what he leaned on to sustain him during his tour of duty. She considered him sweet. she coaxed his generousity at her whim, yet compartmentalized him from her friends, her family, her heart.
The one she pined for thought of HER as sweet. She was only a fling to him, and forgotten once he was deployed to Vietnam, too. Puzzling, when she was not the type to be forgotten. His indifference to her charms, so beguiling to boys before, was infuriating.
She had a reputation as being fast, so the question of her honor would be answered as her delicate state grew. The letters from her beau arrived daily, yet they offered little comfort or interest. His devotion to her was blind, and she made no mention of her indiscretion.
As the summers of love swept up those ready for some times to a'change, the barefoot beauty walking the sand took no heed of the churning and percolating of the world around her. With wars being raged, radicals uncaged, and demonstrations staged, she had but one thing on her mind. She was knocked up at the juicy and tender age of 16.
She had a beau, a boy from around the block who was far, far away in the jungle. His letters were a constant, just as his presence had been since they were children. His longing for her love was what he lived for, what he leaned on to sustain him during his tour of duty. She considered him sweet. she coaxed his generousity at her whim, yet compartmentalized him from her friends, her family, her heart.
The one she pined for thought of HER as sweet. She was only a fling to him, and forgotten once he was deployed to Vietnam, too. Puzzling, when she was not the type to be forgotten. His indifference to her charms, so beguiling to boys before, was infuriating.
She had a reputation as being fast, so the question of her honor would be answered as her delicate state grew. The letters from her beau arrived daily, yet they offered little comfort or interest. His devotion to her was blind, and she made no mention of her indiscretion.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Summer at the Rabbit Ranch
Summer of 197?
When She was 12, her parents divorced.
To distract the four sisters of the imploding of their family, Mom sent her children to her sister's. It was to be an idyllic and adventurous month. There first teen summer was to be a joyous, boisterously barefoot and suntanned season, yet the grieving and shock upon learning of their father's indiscretions and ultimate exodus rained only gloom, anger and heartbreak.
The consolation for the sisters was that in the Country, not only did their fast and lawless cousins promise a summer of fresh-aired bounty, but also thrice married Auntie was matron over Uncle Next's Rabbit Ranch. Next had a name, but was known to everyone by his own descriptive of who he was to Auntie. The sisters boasted to their friends of the vacation, describing green rolling hills upon which cotton-tailed bunnies cavorted among the fields of clover, as laughing children scampered to catch and cuddle them. Melodies of ice cream, moonlit hay rides and hay-chomping farm animals wafted across the hills to busily charm the girls. Envious as they often felt of the Sister's and the privilege and ease so seemingly surrounding the A-list girls, the neighborhood kids felt nagging jealousy at what seemed to be a Heavenly trip to the Rabbit Ranch.
"How much longer?" huffed Cute One, angrily elbowing her Middle Sister.
"I have to go to the bathroom," pouted The Middle.
As per usual, Mom sighed as she daydreamed over the drone of her daughter's voices. She muttered a "soon," and continued to ignore them. With the girls gone, she had drafted a regime to entice her husband home. The separation and his embracing of bachelorhood had defeated Mom daily, and her hopes of luring him into her arms again were only dampened by the constant chaos of the now unmanageable coven.
He was so much better at disciplining the girls, at coaching their numerous activities, at loving them. It was exhausting to Mom, who had four times been disappointed by daughters. The competition for the only man in the house had become a losing battle over the marriage, with each darling developing a warmer relationship with her father than the previous daughter.
The Firstborn was strong, boisterous, and as determined to remain an individual as her dad was.
The Cute One had his friendly demeanor, his instant likability and his ease at every task.
The Baby was coquettish, beautiful, spoiled by everyone.
She was the favorite. A mirror image of her dad, from the blue eyes and blonde hair to the derisiveness of tone directed at Mom, who she blamed for driving their dad into the arms of his undemanding, sexy lover.
Exiting the freeway, the girls giggled and nudged one another as they passed farm after farm, and the road to Uncle Next's grew bumpy and endless in the heat. So primped and pony tailed in their bright, sunny pinafores that morning, the girls excitement waned as the long drive jostled their bubbly mood to that of frustration and boredom. The girls began to gripe and antagonize one another in the manner they had been accustomed since the fretting among their parents. As the road roughened and graveled, the Rabbit Ranch materialized ahead. A bristle of excitement jolted the girls waning spirits once again, as their dreams of a magical wonderland of fluffy, cooing bunnies and butterflies scampering to greet came to fruition.
"Why are all these bugs around here?" complained Middle, who also had inherited her mother's incessant discomfort. Alas, the palatial ranch hacienda was akin to a desolate and muddy barn from what they could see, waves of hazy, heavy heat and thick clouds of odorous waste were in the dusty air as their arrival was met.
Uncle Next hunkered down from an unseen workshop befitted in a black rubber apron to protect his mottled and worn coveralls. The girls scanned past the tumbleweeds blowing and wrinkled pert freckled nosed at what was odors far off from the meadows of sugar and spice promised to them. Mom stayed in the car, avoiding her sister, who had predicted that Mom's badgering and insecurity would drive away her husband. Slamming out a rusty screen door came their country kin, barefoot and casual, but sloppy and smudged. The cousins all bounded towards each other, the laughter and relief infectiously lightening their somber dispositions. The glee charmed the girls, and their apprehensive and guarded arrival soon melted as a trio of floppy eared game bounded from an unhinged pen, and the children were soon scurrying to contain the corral of bouncing bunnies. Each girl soon was snuggling and cooing to the rabbits, which seemed to calm their high-strung, wild behaviors at home of late.
"G on, kids, grab yourself a pup to groom. Y'all can play ranch hands and help out you Uncle Next. Its just about feeding time, so pen up them hares and ya'll can learn about farming."
The sisters painstakingly adopted a rabbit each, carefully choosing one to nurture and name that could absorbed the toughened demeanor they had developed over the last few months. She chose a scrappy bullish hare of mottled orange and brown splotches. Sweet Baby found a playful, bounding rabbit of silvered coat that she chased across the field all day. The girls traipsed alongside their cousins as their tension and friction faded with the afternoon sun. The summer stretched out before them, and with it, the hope of a rescued and reunited home sweet home to return to in September. The afternoon dusking, the girls mussed and smudged, yet refreshed and sunbathed in fresh air and warm weather. The ragtag parade, led by a barefoot and gangly boy from up the road, strolled as they followed each other up to Uncle Next's barn to see what chores awaited them. Amidst the raucous singsong, Uncle Next called out for the girls to bring in their rabbits. Their cousin's scowled and sulked as was their nature, having been reared and ranched among the rabbits.
They trudged into Uncle Next's silo, into a scene of gruesome terror. The silo was dark and thick with buzzing flies, and the earth under their bare feet was sticky and syrupy. As the sun filtered through the rough hewn windowpanes, the girls stared in horror at the slaughtered, skinned carcasses that hung gaping from rusty nails, dead bunny after gutted and gorged dead bunny. The skeletal remains piled high, awaiting either Uncle Next's deft skinning or bulk cremation. Bloody and torn hides piled upon each other, drying out so to be stretched and bolted to hundreds of others and farmed off to furriers in the city. The four bunnies they had gleefully adopted that morning and had pampered with baths and grains lay wide eyed and broken at their feet, glued to each others hides with dried blood and entrails as gnats dove above them.
The girls stood and stared in shock, disbelieving the carnage yet woefully aware of the summer that lay ahead. The mucky earth beneath their feet felt like tar, and the sheer horror of the slaughterhouse before them seemed fitting for such a dismal time in their lives. She sighed with resignation and with the exasperated expression on her face that would remain for 20 years. She bent over to carefully select an appendage from the nearest pile of limbs and paws. It had been her nature to forge ahead, braver than her less resilient sisters. The snarled paw, crusty and cloven, would testament this cruel and vicious ruse their mother pulled, allowing the girls to hold a false sense of happiness and anticipation for their summer vacation. She and her sisters tempered their fears and disappointments over their father's departure, and upon returning home were able to face the facts that their lives had been disrupted and security in all they had known would be replaced with struggle, woe and contempt. She methodically and callously gifted the talisman to her mother upon her return eight weeks later. The house seemed larger without her strapping, strutting father.
Mom, newly singled and inundated with have-to's, bustled around the house, occasionally ranting about all her mounting tasks, interspersed with crying jags and bouts of self-pity.
The sisters often threatened their own children with trips to Uncle Next over the years The rabbit foot she took, now withered and worn of silky fur was just a curled and sharpened toenail that would slice into her soft hands over the years, reminded her daily of the summer at the Rabbit Ranch and the smell and sight of the worst the world had to offer.
When She was 12, her parents divorced.
To distract the four sisters of the imploding of their family, Mom sent her children to her sister's. It was to be an idyllic and adventurous month. There first teen summer was to be a joyous, boisterously barefoot and suntanned season, yet the grieving and shock upon learning of their father's indiscretions and ultimate exodus rained only gloom, anger and heartbreak.
The consolation for the sisters was that in the Country, not only did their fast and lawless cousins promise a summer of fresh-aired bounty, but also thrice married Auntie was matron over Uncle Next's Rabbit Ranch. Next had a name, but was known to everyone by his own descriptive of who he was to Auntie. The sisters boasted to their friends of the vacation, describing green rolling hills upon which cotton-tailed bunnies cavorted among the fields of clover, as laughing children scampered to catch and cuddle them. Melodies of ice cream, moonlit hay rides and hay-chomping farm animals wafted across the hills to busily charm the girls. Envious as they often felt of the Sister's and the privilege and ease so seemingly surrounding the A-list girls, the neighborhood kids felt nagging jealousy at what seemed to be a Heavenly trip to the Rabbit Ranch.
"How much longer?" huffed Cute One, angrily elbowing her Middle Sister.
"I have to go to the bathroom," pouted The Middle.
As per usual, Mom sighed as she daydreamed over the drone of her daughter's voices. She muttered a "soon," and continued to ignore them. With the girls gone, she had drafted a regime to entice her husband home. The separation and his embracing of bachelorhood had defeated Mom daily, and her hopes of luring him into her arms again were only dampened by the constant chaos of the now unmanageable coven.
He was so much better at disciplining the girls, at coaching their numerous activities, at loving them. It was exhausting to Mom, who had four times been disappointed by daughters. The competition for the only man in the house had become a losing battle over the marriage, with each darling developing a warmer relationship with her father than the previous daughter.
The Firstborn was strong, boisterous, and as determined to remain an individual as her dad was.
The Cute One had his friendly demeanor, his instant likability and his ease at every task.
The Baby was coquettish, beautiful, spoiled by everyone.
She was the favorite. A mirror image of her dad, from the blue eyes and blonde hair to the derisiveness of tone directed at Mom, who she blamed for driving their dad into the arms of his undemanding, sexy lover.
Exiting the freeway, the girls giggled and nudged one another as they passed farm after farm, and the road to Uncle Next's grew bumpy and endless in the heat. So primped and pony tailed in their bright, sunny pinafores that morning, the girls excitement waned as the long drive jostled their bubbly mood to that of frustration and boredom. The girls began to gripe and antagonize one another in the manner they had been accustomed since the fretting among their parents. As the road roughened and graveled, the Rabbit Ranch materialized ahead. A bristle of excitement jolted the girls waning spirits once again, as their dreams of a magical wonderland of fluffy, cooing bunnies and butterflies scampering to greet came to fruition.
"Why are all these bugs around here?" complained Middle, who also had inherited her mother's incessant discomfort. Alas, the palatial ranch hacienda was akin to a desolate and muddy barn from what they could see, waves of hazy, heavy heat and thick clouds of odorous waste were in the dusty air as their arrival was met.
Uncle Next hunkered down from an unseen workshop befitted in a black rubber apron to protect his mottled and worn coveralls. The girls scanned past the tumbleweeds blowing and wrinkled pert freckled nosed at what was odors far off from the meadows of sugar and spice promised to them. Mom stayed in the car, avoiding her sister, who had predicted that Mom's badgering and insecurity would drive away her husband. Slamming out a rusty screen door came their country kin, barefoot and casual, but sloppy and smudged. The cousins all bounded towards each other, the laughter and relief infectiously lightening their somber dispositions. The glee charmed the girls, and their apprehensive and guarded arrival soon melted as a trio of floppy eared game bounded from an unhinged pen, and the children were soon scurrying to contain the corral of bouncing bunnies. Each girl soon was snuggling and cooing to the rabbits, which seemed to calm their high-strung, wild behaviors at home of late.
"G on, kids, grab yourself a pup to groom. Y'all can play ranch hands and help out you Uncle Next. Its just about feeding time, so pen up them hares and ya'll can learn about farming."
The sisters painstakingly adopted a rabbit each, carefully choosing one to nurture and name that could absorbed the toughened demeanor they had developed over the last few months. She chose a scrappy bullish hare of mottled orange and brown splotches. Sweet Baby found a playful, bounding rabbit of silvered coat that she chased across the field all day. The girls traipsed alongside their cousins as their tension and friction faded with the afternoon sun. The summer stretched out before them, and with it, the hope of a rescued and reunited home sweet home to return to in September. The afternoon dusking, the girls mussed and smudged, yet refreshed and sunbathed in fresh air and warm weather. The ragtag parade, led by a barefoot and gangly boy from up the road, strolled as they followed each other up to Uncle Next's barn to see what chores awaited them. Amidst the raucous singsong, Uncle Next called out for the girls to bring in their rabbits. Their cousin's scowled and sulked as was their nature, having been reared and ranched among the rabbits.
They trudged into Uncle Next's silo, into a scene of gruesome terror. The silo was dark and thick with buzzing flies, and the earth under their bare feet was sticky and syrupy. As the sun filtered through the rough hewn windowpanes, the girls stared in horror at the slaughtered, skinned carcasses that hung gaping from rusty nails, dead bunny after gutted and gorged dead bunny. The skeletal remains piled high, awaiting either Uncle Next's deft skinning or bulk cremation. Bloody and torn hides piled upon each other, drying out so to be stretched and bolted to hundreds of others and farmed off to furriers in the city. The four bunnies they had gleefully adopted that morning and had pampered with baths and grains lay wide eyed and broken at their feet, glued to each others hides with dried blood and entrails as gnats dove above them.
The girls stood and stared in shock, disbelieving the carnage yet woefully aware of the summer that lay ahead. The mucky earth beneath their feet felt like tar, and the sheer horror of the slaughterhouse before them seemed fitting for such a dismal time in their lives. She sighed with resignation and with the exasperated expression on her face that would remain for 20 years. She bent over to carefully select an appendage from the nearest pile of limbs and paws. It had been her nature to forge ahead, braver than her less resilient sisters. The snarled paw, crusty and cloven, would testament this cruel and vicious ruse their mother pulled, allowing the girls to hold a false sense of happiness and anticipation for their summer vacation. She and her sisters tempered their fears and disappointments over their father's departure, and upon returning home were able to face the facts that their lives had been disrupted and security in all they had known would be replaced with struggle, woe and contempt. She methodically and callously gifted the talisman to her mother upon her return eight weeks later. The house seemed larger without her strapping, strutting father.
Mom, newly singled and inundated with have-to's, bustled around the house, occasionally ranting about all her mounting tasks, interspersed with crying jags and bouts of self-pity.
The sisters often threatened their own children with trips to Uncle Next over the years The rabbit foot she took, now withered and worn of silky fur was just a curled and sharpened toenail that would slice into her soft hands over the years, reminded her daily of the summer at the Rabbit Ranch and the smell and sight of the worst the world had to offer.
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