for putting a woman into a couple of months’ traction by throwing her down a steep, long flight of stairs because she sneered some scathing comment at him as he was walking in and she was walking out of the hottest gay club in the hemisphere where he goes to feel alive and like a real person in his own skin and his once-pure soul sings again like a bird at finally feeling right about himself for once because he’s getting to do the only thing he’s ever wanted to do and that is wear his mammoth-sized pantyhose and his men’s sized 12 high heels and his favourite lipstick and his big bra with the broad back and the lacy panties and all that stuff that his mistress — the one that he left us for almost a year ago— helped him pick out because that frigid-bitch-wife of his wouldn’t because she was too busy taking her sexuality and gender for granted, not putting out when he wanted, not taking his needs into account, wearing those fucking winciette nighties all the time, just like her god-awful dad used to like her wearing when he took what he wanted from her, poor pathetic thing, she just needs a good fuck from a real man.
So, 2 ex-prison guards, 2 gang members, 1 schizophrenic, 1 mentally disabled, 1 armed robber, 1…
Jules
19025

In addition to the abject horror I feel at just the mention of this incident, this sentence is a perfect example of something I love so much about your writing.

Your use of “broken” form is always different and always so well suited to the piece you’re crafting. I do some of this as well --i don’t know how it works for you but it isn’t something I decide to do; rather it is how the words decide to show up on the page. And sometimes it fits. But it never fits the way yours does.

It’s pretty freaking cool.

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