Alice's lips are a lot hotter than she is. Turns out I'm the same way--many people have remarked on my lips being perfect for cock knobbing, and I thank them.
Next Week: Next Week's Next Week!
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BONUS UPDATE (Yeah, I can't help myself):
Mom sat in the wheelchair with a brace around her midsection. She was in rehab after her back surgery, and she's feeling too weak to read this blog post. So goes my theory.
"Ugh," she said. "It's awful."
They have just served her dinner: salisbury steak covered in dark brown goop, boiled watery broccoli, and a bricktastic roll. Mom went right for the angel food cake covered in strawberries.
"Mom, shouldn't you eat your vegetables first? Did you learn nothing from the times you used to tell us that as kids?"
"Be quiet. You don't want a bite? It's edible, at least." She held out a forkful. A bit of whipped cream adorned her upper lip. "Most of the food here is awful."
"I have to go and take care of your cat. I don't want anything to come back up."
"How's she doing, the poor dear?"
"She's fine. She's a cat." I omitted the detail about how she pooped on the carpet and then vomited on her poop. "What's her name, by the way?"
"Mewy."
"Mewy. As in, mew?"
"Yes, what's wrong with that?"
"It's kind of... uncreative."
"I've called all my cats that."
"You couldn't call the cat something like Quetzalcoatl? Or Reggie...?"
"Do you know what they asked me when I got here? They wanted to know if I wanted to play..." Mom curled her lip. "Bingo."
"The monsters!"
"Do you want a deck of cards? Kris Grossem gave me them. Did you know I've never played Solitaire? It's a rather strange game, isn't it?"
"Yes, Solitaire is surpassingly odd."
"But I don't like it. Would you like a deck of cards? Take them. I don't want them."
"No, I don't need a deck of cards, Mom."
"Fine." Mom dropped the deck into the plastic-lined mini-basket. It made a sad clunk.
"You should rest, Mom."
She was starting to droop, being on dilaudid, percocet, morphine, vicodin, valium and peyote. They had drilled pins into her spine.
"Greg...."
"What?"
"They said someone's coming tomorrow to check on my body." Mom's voice was fading, soft and gentle. Her head tilted. "I don't like the sound of that."
"Just get some rest, Mom."
Mom looked at me, smiling faintly. "You won't blog about this, will you?"
I looked at her.
"Well?"
"I'm sorry about reading Babyfucker, Mom."
"What?"
"Nothing." And I squeezed her hand.
Maybe I need rehab for criminal blogging?
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