Being a woman is worse than being a farmer there is so much harvesting and crop spraying to be done: legs to be waxed, underarms shaved, eyebrows plucked, feet pumiced, skin exfoliated and moisturised, spots cleansed, roots dyed, eyelashes tinted, na...
Jill's face was hard when PE ended, and I had the feeling she was trying not to cry. I tried talking to her in the locker room, but she simply shook her head and headed off for the showers. I was about to go there myself when I heard a shriek. Those ...
One was watching the other day a red-tailed hawk, high in the heavens, circling effortlessly, without a beat of the wing, just for the fun of flying, just to be sustained by the air-currents. Then it was joined by another, and they were flying togeth...
At eighteen, she already looks like a woman of sorrows and as her breaths start becoming shorter, tired of looking over her shoulder, she only wants to get away from this city where no one can fathom her love- boundless and profane and real, like her...
Big Ju: What you doin' man? Louie Lastik: Eatin' lunch. Big Ju: I see you eatin' lunch, but why you eatin' over here? Why not go eat over there and eat with your people? Louie Lastik: Man, I don't have any people. I'm with everybody, Julius. Petey Jo...
The skin of frozen snow crunched satisfyingly beneath my boots as I smashed each step into the ground just as I planned to smash my foes.
Nobody in school is stronger than me. But when Sally Holmes kissed me, I never felt so weak in all my life.
Misery is a routine you can learn to live with. It's like rain. Once you're soaked to the skin, you can't get any wetter.
If there is passion, let me feel its heat. I want my heart to beat fast, my breath raspy, my skin to burn.
She'd grown up believing in hell in an abstract nightmare way; but west Texas had given her something more concrete upon which to dread the afterlife.
I called no one, and no one called me. I was suffocating with loneliness. The pain was almost physical. I felt like tearing myself apart. I wanted to escape from my own skin.
...I didn't want you flawless - I have a bare wall at home that's flawless - I wanted your character trapped in the amber of your skin...
Kept dreaming of this spot she had on her neck, this tiny country. I wanted to visit, to paint a picture of what I found there, a wall with a road map of her skin.
What is it like to wear another person’s skin?” “I don’t have a good answer for that,” I said. “It hurts.” “Can you remember their stories? Can you feel the love that they felt?
She can feel his blood, just beneath his skin; when he breathes, the air fills with smoke. He's like a dragon, ancient and fearless.
A blanket could be made of tuna fish skin, which would go well with my cottage cheese thighs.
When you lose someone who's as close as your own skin, the only place you can find him again is hidden inside your memories.
The hospital room was as cold as dead skin, the hallway crowded with lost souls and reeking of illness.
The cut under his eye and the split skin on his lower lip only enhanced his profile. He didn’t look defeated. He looked like a fighter. A champion.
I grew up in the age of polyester. When I got to touch real silk, cotton and velvet, the feel of nonsynthetic fabrics blew me away. I know it's important how clothing looks, but it's equally important how it feels on your skin.
Growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, the color of my skin and my rather peculiar background as an Ethiopian immigrant delineated the border of my life and friendships. I learned quickly how to stand alone.
