It's red and velvety. It's a book. It's my "scribbling pad" and it is always near my bed. The writings are all from summer of 1999. There's a passage that I can't comprehend. I mean, I have no idea what I'm trying to say. Help me out!
"Don't you want to cry?" asked Patsy. She had just been made aware of her friend's recent miseries.
"What do you mean 'want to'? Sandra let out with a vehemence bordering on psychotic, episodic, (psychic?) meandering.
" I suppose I should have said, 'will you?' or 'can you'--or maybe I should just have remained silent. "You just said that no one cares about you."
"That's perfect." Gratuitous responses to what is obviously beyond anyone's control. "If I could cry, I would."
Her shoulder-length brownish hair was speckled with white. It was, at least, clean.
"I've got to go now," announced Patsy, as she tossed back her orange-cascading locks. "I just remembered I have to pick up the child. Take care, ok,?"
Patsy's tight black pants betrayed a certain need for sex, but her preppie, forest-green shirt told most of America that, in a pinch, she would be on their side.
Sandra...thought about the spirit that had inhabited her while she was pregnant years ago. She wondered if it ever made it to its desired home. Maybe it was living in one of Patsy's kids. "That thing spends too much time berating Man for whatever reason." Sandra told herself that it was time--now or never--to give birth to a similar ghoul or otherwise unsavory spirit. "I have absolutely nothing to hold on to, she thought. "And that's why women love to parade their newborns around the street of the city, allowing them to suck in all that carbon monoxide from busy drivers and then take them home to suckle off the teat of a Mama lamb who just grazed on some MSG-filled potato chips from the local corner store. That's what I need."
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