Kat George

They giggled, leaned into each other in covert whispers. Each of their soft, fleshy arms brushed against the other, and as one whispered into the other’s ear I could feel the sickly warm secret breath as if it were upon my own neck. A shudder crippled me momentarily; then I was completely still in the thrall of the gentle touches, the knowing smiles and furtive murmurings of the two girls.

If I were a boy I’d be one of the lads. We’d tousle each other and drink too much and leer at women in bars. We’d say things like “bros before hoes,” and mean it. If one of my mates stole a girl from me, we’d both say “to hell with her,” and continue in our mateship because girls are crazy ass bitches anyway.

Oh Bushwick! I left you for a while, for a while to visit my home town on the other side of the globe, but my heart was always calling for you, always bleeding for you, always hankering to be back in your grimy womb. The relief that flooded me when I returned was unnatural; it felt like coming home even though, Bushwick, you’re not my home. Not really.

I know you probably think I’m some kind of uniquely filthy, completely nasty woman, but I’m not. Just because I like picking the wax out of my ears and rolling it into little balls, or because I spend an equal amount of time picking my nose and hoping that a little hair will come out attached to the snot.

As I looked at the shriveled thing in front of me (a monkey torso sewn to the tail of a fish—the Japanese would send them to the English telling them it was a real mermaid as a joke which is probably the best joke ever) and listened to Dan telling me stories, I got a feeling of very intense happiness.

It wasn’t until the beautician flipped me finally onto my back and removed her gloves, beaming, that the import of that foreboding became clear. I looked down at the now bare space between my legs and my heart skipped a beat. I looked like a freak.

She runs across the open moor with her hair flying wildly behind her. Lithe yet purposeful, there is a primal sensuality in her murderous power. She is being pursued; and a young girl, hidden from sight, watches in awe as the woman spins in a cloud of skirts and hair, lifts her orb above her head, bows, and kills all the monsters in the clearing with one foul blow.

I’d like to know the exact thought process you had gone through when you decided it was a great idea to text your co-worker to tell him that you like him. Or what was going through your mind when, 2 hours later, you decided to text him again and tell him you didn’t mean it. What about when you got home at 4am and sent a text to the guy from upstairs with the filthy apartment to see if he was home?

Some people work in the service industry as a career. Others, like me, find it to be an intensely enjoyable way to make the money they need to survive while they chase other dreams. Both are completely relevant and commendable reasons for employment in the service industry, but some people see it as an indictment on the kind of person you are, and use it as a reason to treat you like the cigarette butt on the bottom of their shiny loafer.

We turned the corner and Emma let out an emphatic “fuck.” There was a line 5 people deep and about 300 people long leading to the door, and it was being fiercely guarded by Herculean security guards with buzzing earpieces (“who are you, Madonna?” I taunted silently, laughing to myself. Finally I had my revenge!), and their serpentine female counterparts who were clad in gold sequined shorts and sharp black blazers.

“Well I was thinking… I’ve got two weeks to kill in London and I haven’t arranged anywhere to stay yet. Do you think it would be too weird to ask Dan if I could stay on his couch?” She turned to me abruptly, whisk in hand, dripping water on the lino. “Kat you’re single now, you can do whatever the hell you like,” she said seriously.

Ever wanted to bang a cartoon character? It’s OK—there’s no shame in it. We’ve all fantasized from time-to-time about some expertly penned hands expertly penning us. There’s a sense of mystery entirely devoid from human crushes—the sort that makes you wonder exactly what is it that would confront you should you find yourself pulling Aladdin’s pants off (with your teeth, you dirty thing!) or unhooking Ariel’s clam bra.