If God Has Nothing Better To Do

Sometimes I See Things, I Think. Out Of The Corner Of My Eye, Taunting Me, And Then It’s Gone. And Dreams. Such Horrible Dreams. What If Something Terrible Happened To Me? What If I Am Damaged?" The Rain Is A Cool Kiss On My Sleeve As I Link My Arm With Hers. "we’re All Damaged Somehow.

God Doesn't Like Lesbians," Grandma Huberman Hised, Throwing The Magazine In The Trash. Jennifer Knew What Lesbian Meant, And She Knew She Probably Was One. But She Couldn't Understand Why God Would Hold That Against Her Or Against Monica Mathers, Who'd Never Started A War Or Killed Anybody, And Whose Deadeye Three-pointers Were Straight-up Amazing. After All, Hadn't God Made Both Of Them? But People Were Like That, She'd Noticed. They'd Invoke Godly Privilege At The Weirdest Of Times And For The Most Stupid Reasons.

It Was A Kiss Small In Its Ministrations But Epic In Its Feeling.

One Could Argue That It's Romantic To Die For Love. Of Course, Then You're Dead And Unable To Take That Honeymoon Trip To The Alps With All The Other Fashionable Young Couples, Which Is A Shame.

Felicity And I Watch The Dancers Moving As One. They Spin About Like The Earth On It's Axis, Enduring The Dark, Waiting For The Sun.