naoquerofalardesexo
Maria Nicanor

misfit toy

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19 julho 2013

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a memory



She waited. Again.
She looked at the moon. She'd fantasized that it would be full, but it was gone altogether.
She hadn't brought a watch because it never felt it would come to that.
"I'll give him five more minutes", she decided.
What a lunatic she was. She was waiting for him in her prettiest bra, her fluttery underpants, her best dress, totally exposed and humiliated. She felt like a mail-order bride whose groom-to-be hadn't bothered to show up at post office. Why did she put herself in these situations? 
It was certainly after midnight by now. He wasn't coming. She was such a turd. How easy it was to reject yourself when you felt so thoroughly rejected.
She wished she was by the sea. She could be like Virginia Woolf, pack her pockets full of stones and walk into the sea. But the pockets of her dress were flimsy and fake. You couldn't get a suicide load into them, no way. She wished she'd worn a big old jumper and a pair of old waders. Her attempt of sexiness was for nobody.
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