“I was throwing up demons,” she informed me with hollow eyes. “I thought I was done, but they just kept coming.”
Sometimes drinking responsibly means to not tell anybody about it.
It happened once upon a time in Mexico. There were windows down, kids screaming over one another to be heard, candy wrappers on the floor, bubble gum flavored lip gloss, sweaty armpits and the whole works—and more often than not, at the helm, blond mullet flapping like freedom in the wind.
He was like Mommy Dearest with a penis and a mop.
As I got closer, I could see he had a black tear painted on his white powdered cheek. He needed cheering up. I would cheer him up...Whatever it took. We would turn this fallen angel into a risen demon if it took us all night.
I was getting confused. I loved God... Sure, I had danced. I had popped and I had locked. My feelings for God had not changed. Had His changed for me? Did God look at me different now? Was I being disobedient? And if so…how exactly?
There are some things that should not be shared in front of an audience filled with college students. Not being able to refrain from touching yourself might just be one of them.
It is amazing what sounds like a good idea at the age of 19: 3am Dennys, bungee jumping, car camping trips to Tijuana, all night bar crawls with a fake id...or, in my case, marriage.
“We can’t play that.” Sophie just rolled her eyes at me and took a slurp of milk. “Why not?” “Because it’s totally Satanic! I heard that they have a witch at Milton Bradley put a curse on each and every game.”
Tina was clearly a returning player to the game by her knowledge of the lingo and laid down willingly in the midst of us girls, looking down on her in our newfound enthusiasm for sinning as if we were about to sacrifice her to the White Witch. Tina’s sister, Raquel, sat beside her while Missy...
In numb shock I listened as Led Zeppelin sang an anthem to the Dark Lord when the words “a bustle in your hedgerow” were played backwards in “Stairway to Heaven” producing “Here’s to my sweet Satan.” ...If Satan had polluted one song, what was stopping him from polluting them all? [...]
The suspense builds as Bo blows into the hot water bottle. He hesitates a little and I hear someone behind us begging, “Please Jesus.” Bo seems to get over his hump and deposits another lungful of air into the hot water bottle, now as big as a soccer ball. He’s on a roll now...