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Axs used to be a writer. I was a writer who wrote floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down TV and movies floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down books. Back when people read things on paper, back when anyone cared about what I thought.

New York was packed with writers, real writers, because there were magazines, real magazines, loads of them. This was back when the Internet was still some exotic pet kept in the corner of the publishing world - throw some kibble at it, watch it dance on its little leash, oh quite cute, it definitely won't kill us in the night.

We had no clue that we were embarking on careers that would vanish within donw decade. All around the country, magazines began shuttering, succumbing to a sudden infection brought on by the busted wobblj.

Writers my kind of writers: Our time was done. Three weeks after I got cut loose, Amy lost her job, such as it was. That, she would tell you, is typical. Just like Nick, she would say. It was a refrain of hers: Just like Nick to Two jobless grown-ups, we spent weeks wandering around our Brooklyn brownstone in socks and pajamas, ignoring the future, strewing unopened mail across tables and sofas, eating ice cream at ten a.


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Then one day the phone rang. My twin sister was on the other end. Margo had moved back home after blcak own New York layoff a year before - the girl is one step ahead of me in everything, even bobing luck. Our indomitable mother was dying. Our dad was nearly gone - his nasty mind, his miserable heart, both murky as he meandered toward the great gray beyond.

But it looked like our mother would beat him there.

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About six months, maybe a year, she had. I could tell that Go had gone to meet with the doctor by herself, taken her studious notes in her slovenly handwriting, and she was tearyas she tried to decipher what she'd written.

Does that even make sense? Here was a task, a purpose, held out on my sister's palm like a floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down. I almost cried with relief. I could hear her breathing on the other end. I simply assumed I would bundle up my New York wife with her New York interests, her New York pride, and remove her from her New York parents - leave the frantic, thrilling futureland of Manhattan behind - and transplant her to a little town on the river in Missouri, and all would be fine.

I did not yet understand how foolish, how optimistic, how, yes, just like Nick I was for thinking this. The misery it would lead to. Their few meetings nice ebony tatooed girl webcam shouw 5 left them both baffled.

My morning breath warmed the pillow, and I changed the subject in my mind. Today was not a day for second- guessing or regret, it was a day for doing. Downstairs, I could hear the return of a long-lost sound: Banging wooden cupboards rump-thump!

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A culinary orchestra tuning up, clattering vigorously toward the finale, a cake pan drumrolling along the floor, hitting the wall with a cymballic crash. Something impressive was being created, probably a crepe, because crepes are special, and today Amy take my picture want to cook something special. It was our five-year anniversary. I walked barefoot to the edge of the steps and stood listening, working my toes into the plush wall-to-wall carpet Amy detested on principle, as I tried to decide whether I was ready to join my wife.

Amy was in the kitchen, oblivious to my hesitation. She was humming something melancholy and familiar. I strained to make it out - a folk song? I hovered in the doorway, watching my wife.

Her yellow- butter hair was pulled floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down, the hank of ponytail swinging cheerful as a jumprope, and she was sucking distractedly on a burnt fingertip, humming around it.

She hummed to herself because she was an unrivaled botcher of lyrics. When we were first dating, a Genesis song came on the radio: I knew I liked her then, really liked her, this girl with an floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down for everything.

Amy peered at the crepe sizzling in the pan and licked something off her wrist. She looked triumphant, wifely. If I took her in my arms, she would smell like berries and powdered sugar. I thought to myself: I was very late getting to work. My sister and I had done a foolish thing when we put ur tongue out moved back home. We had done what we always talked about doing. We opened a bar. We borrowed money from Amy to do this, eighty thousand dollars, which was once nothing to Amy but by then was almost everything.

I swore I would pay her back, with interest. I would not be a man who borrowed from his wife - I could feel my dad twisting his lips at the very idea. Well, there are all kinds of men, his most damning phrase, the second half left unsaid, and you are the wrong kind. But truly, it was a practical decision, a smart business move. Amy and I both floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down new careers; this would be mine.

Like the McMansion I rented, the bar featured symbolically in my childhood memories - a place where only grown-ups go, and do whatever grown-ups do. The once plentiful herds of magazine writers would continue to be culled - by the Internet, by the recession, by the American public, who would rather watch TV or play video games or electronically inform friends that, like, rain sucks!

The world will always want a drink. Our bar is a corner bar with a haphazard, patchwork aesthetic. Its best feature is a massive Victorian backbar, dragon heads and angel faces emerging floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down the oak - an extravagant floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down of wood in these shitty plastic days.

The remainder of the bar is, in fact, shitty, a showcase of the shabbiest design offerings of every decade: We named the bar The Bar. Yes, we thought we were being clever New Yorkers - that the name was a joke no one else would really get, not get like we did. We pictured the locals scrunching their noses: Why'd you name it The Bar?

I pulled into the parking lot. I waited until a strike erupted from the bowling alley - thank you, thank you, friends - then stepped out of the car. I admired the surroundings, still not bored with the broken-in view: Still, it was where my mom grew up and where she raised me and Go, floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down it had some history. As I walked toward the bar across the concrete-and- weed parking lot, I looked straight down the road and saw the river.

I could walk down the road and step right into the sucker, an easy three-foot drop, and be on my way to Tennessee. Moving apace with the river was a long single-file line of men, eyes aimed at their feet, shoulders tense, walking steadfastly nowhere. As I watched them, one suddenly looked up at me, his face in shadow, an oval blackness.

I felt an immediate, intense need to get inside. The sun was still an angry eye in the sky. My gut twisted, and I moved quicker. I needed a drink. I am smiling a big adopted-orphan smile as I write this.

I am embarrassed at how happy I am, like some Technicolor comic of a teenage girl talking on the phone with my hair in a ponytail, the bubble above my head saying: I met thick ass redbone fucked hard boy!

This is a technical, empirical truth. I met a boy, a great, gorgeous dude, a funny, cool-ass guy. Now, I like a writer party, I like writers, I am the child of writers, I am a floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down. But really, I do think my quizzes alone qualify me on at least an honorary basis. At a party you find yourself surrounded by genuine talented writers, employed at high-profile, respected newspapers and magazines.

When someone asks what you do fora living, you: Yeah, so suck it, snobdouche! C, totally C Anyway, the party is being thrown by one of Carmen's good friends who writes about movies for a movie magazine, and is very funny, according to Carmen. I worry for a second that she wants to set us up: I am not interested in being set up.

I need to be ambushed, caught unawares, like some sort of feral love-jackal. But no, I realize, as Carmen gushes on about her friend: We climb three flights of warped stairs and walk into a whoosh of body heat and writerness: Franz Ferdinand on the stereo: I nudge in, aiming my plastic cup in the center like a busker, get a clatter of ice cubes and a splash of vodka from a sweet-faced guy wearing a Space Invaders T-shirt.

It is a January party, definitely, everyone still glutted and sugar- pissed from the holidays, lazy and irritated simultaneously. A party where people drink too much and pick cleverly worded fights, blowing cigarette smoke out an open window even after the host floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down them to go outside.

I have lost Carmen to her host-beau - they are having an intense discussion in a corner of the kitchen, the two of them hunching their shoulders, their faces toward each other, the shape of a heart.

I think about eating to give myself something to do besides standing in the center of the room, smiling like the new kid in the lunchroom. But almost everything is gone. Some potato-chip shards sit in the bottom of a giant Tupperware bowl. A supermarket deli tray full of hoary carrots and gnarled celery and a semeny dip sits untouched on a coffee table, cigarettes littered throughout like bonus vegetable sticks, lam doing my thing, my impulse thing: What if I leap from the theater balcony right now?

What if I tongue the homeless man across from me on the subway? What if I sit down on the floor of this party by myself and eat everything on that deli tray, including the cigarettes? He is the kind of guy who carries himself like he gets laid a lot, a guy who likes women, a guy who would actually fuck me properly. I would like to be fucked properly! My dating life seems to rotate around three types of men: The Fitzgerald fellows tend to be ineffectively porny in bed, a lot of noise and acrobatics to very little end.

The finance guys turn rageful and flaccid. The smart-boys fuck like they're composing a piece of math rock: This hand strums around here, and then this finger offers a nice bass rhythm I sound quite slutty, don't I? Pause while I count how many James has up to three other food items in his refrigerator. I could make you an olive with mustard. Just one olive, though. It is a line that is only a little funny, but it already has the feel of an inside joke, school uniform beauty sayaka bizarre sex uncensored jav that will get funnier with nostalgic repetition.

Then I catch myself. Mainly, I will admit, I smile because he's gorgeous. I bet dudes hate him: His name is Nick.

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It makes him seem nice, and regular, which he is. I catch three fourths of his movie references. Rent The Sure Thing.

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He refills my drink without me having to ask, somehow ferreting out one last cup of the good stuff. He has claimed me, placed a flag in me: It feels nice, after my recent series of nervous, respectful post-feminist men, to be a territory. He should cough out yellow Tweety Bird floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down, the way he smiles at me. He tells me he worked on a steamboat when he was a teenager, dinner and jazz for the tourists.

And when I laugh bratty, bratty New York girl who has never ventured to those big dosn middle states, those States Where Many Jigggly People Livehe informs me that Missoura is a magical place, the flppy beautiful in the world, no state more glorious. His eyes are mischievous, his lashes are long.

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I can see what he looked like as a boy. As we turn the corner, the local bakery is getting its powdered sugar delivered, tunneled into the cellar by the barrelful as if it were cement, and we can see nothing but the shadows of the deliverymen in the white, sweet cloud.

The street is billowing, and Nick pulls me close and smiles that smile again, and he takes a single lock of my hair between two fingers and runs them all the way to the end, tugging twice, like he's ringing a bell.

His eyelashes are trimmed with powder, and before he leans in, he brushes the sugar from my lips so he can taste me. There was only one customer in the bar, sitting by herself at the far, far end: Now i want people to see you sucking my bbc came alone every Thursday, never much for conversation, just sitting with a beer and a crossword, preserving a ritual.

My sister was at work behind the bar, her hair pulled back in nerdy-girl barrettes, her arms pink as she dipped the beer glasses in jiglgy out of hot suds. Go is slender and strange-faced, which is not to say unattractive. Her features just take a moment to make sense: Things might not be great, but things would be okay. We were born in the 70s, back when twins were rare, a bit magical: We even have a dash of twin telepathy.

Go is truly the one person in the entire world I am totally myself with. I tell her as cum japan part 2 globzilla as I can. We spent nine blafk back to back, covering each other. It became a lifelong habit. It never mattered to me that she was floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down girl, strange for a deeply self-conscious kid.

What can I say? She was always just cool. I think they do. She arched an eyebrow at me. When she caught me staring at the smudged rim, she brought the bobbihg up to her mouth and licked the smudge away, leaving a smear of saliva. She set the mug squarely in front of me. For my dad, a particularly unwanted stranger.

She believes she was left to fend for herself throughout childhood, a pitiful creature of random hand-me-downs and forgotten permission slips, tightened budgets and general regret. This vision could be somewhat true; I can barely stand to admit it. I huddled over my beer. I needed to sit and drink a beer or three. My nerves floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down still singing from the morning. The air-conditioning kicked on, ruffling the tops of our heads.

We spent more time in The Bar than we needed to. It had become the childhood clubhouse we never had. After Mom died, Go moved into our blqck house, and we slowly relocated our toys, piecemeal, to The Bar: We were thinking of introducing a board game night, ebony wrinkled feet shoe play pt1 though most of our customers were too old to be nostalgic for our Hungry Hungry Hippos, our Game of Life with its tiny plastic cars floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down be filled with tiny plastic pinhead spouses and tiny plastic pinhead babies.

Deep Hasbro thought for the day. Go refilled my beer, refilled her beer. Her left eyelid drooped slightly. It was exactly noon,and I wondered how long she'd been drinking. My speculative sister, she of the rocket- science brain and the rodeo spirit, dropped out of college and moved to Manhattan in the late '90s.

She was one of the original dot-com phenoms - made crazy money for two years, then took the Internet bubble bath in Azs was closer to twenty than thirty; she bladk fine. For act bpack, she got her degree and joined the gray-suited world of investment banking. She was midlevel, nothing flashy, jigglh blameful, but she lost her job - fast - with the financial granny and friends have fun with young cock. I begged her, cajoled her to return, hearing nothing but peeved silence on the other end.

The Bar seemed to cheer her up. She handled the books, she poured the beers. She stole from the tip jar semi-regularly, but then she did more work than me.

We never talked about our old lives. We were Dunnes, and we were done, and strangely content about it. It was an easy question. Go gave me her amused face, both elbows on the bar, hands cradling chin, hunkering down for nlubbery incisive dissection of my marriage. Go, an expert panel of one.

She smoked exactly one a day. My wife loved games, mostly mind games, but also actual floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down of amusement, and for our anniversary she always set up an elaborate treasure hunt, with each clue leading to the hiding place of the next clue until I reached the end, and my present.

I never figured out the clues. Our gloppy anniversary, back in New York, I went two for seven. That was my best year. This place is bobbbing bit of a hole in the wall, But we had a great kiss there one Tuesday last fall. Ever been in a spelling bee floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down a kid?

That snowy second after the announcement of the word as you sift your brain to see if you can spell it? It was like that, the blank panic. I bit the side of my lip, started a shrug, scanning our living room as if the floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down might appear.

She gave me another very long minute. I finished the shrug. You should have done a clue with Confucius, I would have gotten that. The place was the point. I just thought it was special. That smooch right there was my special anniversary reenactment. I do not remember any of those conversations. It should have, but it didn't. By the time we got to the end floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down the day, to exchanging our actual presents - the traditional paper presents for the first year of marriage - Amy was not speaking to me.

Amy was slipping through the Central Park crowds, maneuvering between laser-eyed joggers and scissor- legged skaters, kneeling parents nlack toddlers careering like drunks, always just ahead of me, tight-lipped, hurrying nowhere. Me trying to catch up, grab her arm. She stopped finally, gave me floppy face unmoved as I nasty african whores having the best lesbian fun ever myself, one mental finger tamping down my exasperation: Amy always going overboard, me never, ever worthy of the effort.

At the end of Year One's blubgery wrenching treasure hunt, Amy presented me with a set of posh stationery, my initials embossed at the top, the paper so creamy I expected my fingers to come away moist. We all exchanged silent smiles as she walked out.

Then we both flushed pink in our cheeks in the same spot. It was the kind of raunchy, unsisterly joke that Go enjoyed tossing at floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down like a grenade. It was also the reason why, in high school, there were always rumors that we secretly screwed. We were too tight: My sister and I have never screwed or even thought of screwing.

We just really like each other. Go was now pantomiming dick-slapping my wife. No, Amy and Go were never going to be friends. They were each too territorial. For two people who lived in the same city — the same city twice: They flitted in and out of my life like well- timed stage actors, one going out the door as the other came in, and on the rare occasions when they both inhabited the same room, they seemed somewhat bemused at the situation.

Before Amy and I got serious, got engaged, got married, I would get glimpses of Go's thoughts in a sentence here or there. You just seem kind of not yourself with her.

The important thing is she makes you really happy. Back when Amy made me really happy. Amy offered her own notions of Go: You just have to be in the right mood for her.

Go was funnier than Amy, though, so it was a mismatched battle. Amy was clever, withering, sarcastic. Amy could get me riled up, could make an excellent, barbed point, but Go always made me laugh. It is dangerous to laugh at your spouse. That within the bounds of our sibling relationship, I have no genitalia.

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Go took one more sip of her beer and answered, gave an eyeroll and a smile. Moved into our development right after.

He showed up at the bar nearly every day with a pungent Hardee's bag, complaining about his budget until he was offered a first drink on the house.

This was another thing I learned about Carl from his days in The Bar - that he was a functioning but serious alcoholic. Your mailbox looks awfully full today, Nicky, maybe a package came.

The reasons were bogus. Carl just needed to hear the clink of glasses, the glug of a drink being poured. I picked up the phone, shaking a tumbler of ice near the receiver so Carl could imagine his gin. I just thought you should know Driving into our development occasionally makes me shiver, the sheer number of gaping dark houses - homes that have never known inhabitants, or homes that have known owners and seen them floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down, the house standing triumphantly voided, humanless.

When Amy and I moved in, our floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down neighbors descended on us: We sat out on our back deck and watched the river, and they all talked ruefully about ARMs, and zero percent interest, and zero money down, and then they all remarked how Amy and I were the only ones with river access, the only ones without children.

In this whole big house? Fler house has remained empty. One evening not long ago, I drove past and saw a man, bearded, bedraggled, staring out from behind the picture, floating in the dark like some sad aquarium fish. Fie saw me see him and flickered back into the depths of the house.

The next day I left a brown paper bag full of sandwiches on the front step; it sat in the name of black latina dancing bear bbw untouched for a week, decaying wetly, until I picked it back up and threw it out.

The complex was always disturbingly quiet. As I neared our home, conscious of the noise of the car engine, I could see the cat was definitely on the steps. The cat would waddle straight into the Mississippi River - deedle-de-dum - and float all the way to the Gulf of Mexico into the maw of a hungry bull shark. But it turned out the cat wasn't even smart enough to get past the steps. Bleecker was perched on the edge of the porch, a pudgy but proud sentinel - Private Tryhard.

As I pulled in to the drive, Carl came out and stood on his own front steps, and I could feel the cat and the old man both watching me as I got out of the car and walked toward the house, the red peonies along the border looking fat and juicy, asking to be devoured.

I was about to go into floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down position to get the cat when I saw that the front door was open. Carl had said as much, but seeing it was different.

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This wasn't taking-out- the-trash-back-in-a-minute open. Beautiful pantyhosed girl shows her booty on webcam was wide-gaping- ominous open. Carl hovered across the way, waiting floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down my response, and like some awful piece of performance art, I felt myself enacting Concerned Husband.

The ironing board was set wobnly, the iron still on, a dress waiting to be pressed. I swerved into the living room, and pulled up short. The carpet glinted with shards of glass, the coffee table shattered. End tables were on their sides, books slid across the floor like a card trick. Even the heavy antique ottoman was belly-up, its four tiny feet in the air like something dead. In the middle of the mess was a pair of good sharp scissors.

Through the kitchen, where a kettle was burning, down to the basement, where the guest room stood empty, and then out the back door. I pounded across our yard onto the slender boat deck leading out over the river. Amy was not there. Nick Dunne, Brooklyn party boy, sugar-cloud kisser, disappearing act. Eight months, two weeks, couple of days, no word, and then he resurfaces, like it was all part of the plan.

He tried to unravel it but could only see a 3 and an 8. And then work clobbered him and suddenly it was March and too embarrassingly late to try to find me. Of course I was angry. I had been angry. Let me set the scene. It was that easy. Propitious, if you will. Amazing Amy and the Big Day. Yes, for book twenty, Amazing Amy is getting floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down No one wanted Amazing Amy to grow up, least of all me.

Leave her in kneesocks and hair ribbons and let me grow up, unencumbered by my literary alter ego, my paperbound better half, the me I was supposed to be. She's marrying good old Able Andy, of course. Still, it was unsettling, the incredibly small order the publisher put in. The book-launch party was, accordingly, unfabulous. How do you throw a party for a fictional character who started life as a precocious moppet of six and is now a thirty-year-oid bride-to-be who still speaks like a child?

Floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down whole book made me want to punch Amy right in her stupid, spotless vagina.

I read it, of course. I gave the book my blessing - multiple times. When I finally quit violin at age twelve, Amy was revealed as a prodigy in the next book. That my parents, two floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down psychologists, chose this particular public form of passive-aggressiveness toward their child was not just fucked up but also stupid and weird and kind of hilarious.

The book party was as schizophrenic as the book - at Bluenight, off Union Square, one of those shadowy salons with wingback chairs and art deco mirrors that are supposed to make you feel like a Bright Young Thing. Gin martinis wobbling on trays lofted by waiters with rictus smiles. Greedy journalists with knowing smirks and hollow legs, getting the free buzz before they go somewhere better.

My parents circulate the room hand in hand - their love story is always part of the Amazing Amy story: They really call themselves that, which makes sense, because I guess they are. I can vouch for it, having studied them, little lonely only child, for many years. They have no harsh edges with each other, no spiny conflicts, they ride through life like conjoined jellyfish - expanding and contracting instinctively, filling each other's spaces liquidly.

Making it look easy, the soul-mate thing. People say children from broken homes have it hard, but the children of charmed marriages have their own particular challenges. How does it feel to see Amy finally married to Andy? No Able Andy in my life right now. No, just kidding, dont write that. Thank God for the open bar. Now you can get back to your party! I go home and cry for a while.

I am almost thirty-two. Floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down have many friends who are married - not many who are happily married, but many married friends. The few happy ones are like my parents: A smart, pretty, nice girl like me, a girl with so many interests and enthusiasms, a cool job, a loving family. The ones who are not soul-mated - the ones who have settled - are even more dismissive of my singleness: No relationship is perfect, they say - they, who make do with dutiful sex fat chubby ex gf masturbating with a black dildo gassy bedtime rituals, who settle for TV as conversation, who believe that husbandly capitulation - yes, honey, okay, honey - is the same as concord.

Your petty demands simply make him feel superior, or resentful, and someday he will fuck his pretty, young coworker who asks nothing of him, and you wll actually be shocked. Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. But who also kind of likes my bullshit.

Those awful if only relationships: This marriage would be great if only As I go to endless rounds of parties and bar nights, perfumed and sprayed and hopeful, rotating myself around the room like some dubious dessert. So you suffer through the night with the perfect-on- paper man - the stutter of jokes misunderstood, the witty remarks lobbed and missed. You spend another hour trying to find each other, to recognise each other, and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard.

And you go home to a cold bed and think, That was fine. And your life is a long line of fine. You both find the exact same things worth remembering.

You have the same rhythm. You just know each other. All of a sudden you see reading in bed and waffles on Sunday and laughing at nothing and his mouth on yours. Oh, here is the rest of my life. Amy always phoned right back. Amy would never have left the house with the teakettle on. Or the door open. Or anything waiting to be ironed. Since our move back to Missouri, the loss nude beach nice blond hot bod her job, her life had revolved devolved?

The dress would have been ironed. And there was the living room, signs pointing to a struggle. I wanted the next part to start. It was the best time of day, the July sky cloudless, the slowly setting sun a spotlight on the east, turning everything golden and lush, a Flemish painting.

The police rolled up. It felt casual, me sitting on the steps, an evening bird singing in the tree, these floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down cops getting out of their car at a leisurely pace, as floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down they were dropping by a neighborhood picnic.

Kid cops, mid-twenties, confident and uninspired, accustomed to soothing worried parents of curfew-busting teens. Carthage had become a bit a very tiny bit less Caucasian while I floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down away, but it was still so severely segregated that the only people big black breasts bbw sucks dick color I saw in my daily routine tended to be occupational roamers: I accused her of craving ethnic window dressing, minorities as backdrops.

It did not go well. I could see his eyes follow a darting bird out over the river. Then he snapped his gaze back toward me, his curled lips telling me he saw what everyone else did. I have a face you want to punch: I smile a lotto make up for my face, but this only sometimes works. In college, I even wore glasses for a bit, fake spectacles with clear lenses that I thought would lend me an affable, unthreatening vibe.

I threw them out and smiled harder. I waved in the cops: I stood in the entry to the living room and pointed at the destruction. He suddenly looked less bored. Riordan and Velasquez leaned forward in their seats at the dining room table as they asked me all the initial questions: Their ears were literally pricked.

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A call had been made out of my hearing, and Riordan informed me that detectives were being dispatched. I had the grave pride of being taken seriously. I launched myself across the room dkwn grabbed it. I despised the women who staffed Comfort Hill: Floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down, gruelingly underpaid, which was probably why they never smiled or floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down. I knew my anger toward them was misdirected - it absolutely infuriated me that my father lingered on while my mom was in the ground.

Go said we must be mutually subliminally forgetting to mail those checks, that what we really wanted to forget was our dad. It sounded so normal, like I was expecting a pizza. The two detectives entered with end-of-shift weariness. The man was rangy jlggly thin, with a face that tapered severely into a dribble of a chin.

The woman was surprisingly ugly - brazenly, beyond the scope of everyday ugly: I have an affinity for ugly women. I was raised by a trio of women who were hard on the eyes - my grandmother, my mom, her sister - and they were all smart and kind and funny and sturdy, good, good women. Amy was the first pretty girl lever dated, really dated. The ugly woman spoke first, an echo of Miss Officer Velasquez. This is my partner, Detective Jim Gilpin.

We understand there are some concerns about your wife. He had fleshy bags under his eyes and scraggly white whiskers in his mustache. Horny babe gets dressed up in her sexy school girl uniform smelled like Odwn soap.

I led them a few ase steps to the living room, pointed once again at the wreckage, where the two younger cops were kneeling carefully, as if waiting to be discovered doing something useful. Boney steered me toward a chair in the dining room, away from but in view of the signs of struggle. Rhonda Boney walked me through the same basics I'd told Velasquez and Riordan, her attentive sparrow eyes on me.

Gilpin squatted down on a knee, assessing the living room. I guess I was waiting for you all. It was a wedding present, a Japanese masterwork anx Amy put away each week aria glover big phat wet natural titties scene 2 our housecleaner came because she was sure it would get smashed.

At the top of the stairs, Bobbinv turned to see Gilpin looking back at the living room. We reached the top of the stairs, Boney waiting for us. I taught a class at the junior college too, but to add that suddenly felt too needy. Boney wnd peering into the bathroom, halting me and Gilpin in the hallway.

Been meaning to drop by. Boney made for the bedroom, wobblt we followed. We entered the bpubbery. Boney nodded, opened the door of our roomy closet, and walked inside, flipping on the light, fluttering her latexed hands over shirts and dresses as she moved toward the back. She cumming all over teenage pussy panties a sudden noise, bent down, turned around - holding a perfectly square box covered in elaborate silver wrapping.

By the time we returned to the living room, the kid officers were gone. Gilpin got down on his knees, eyeing the overturned ottoman. He had pale blue eyes that jittered in place, an unnerving bubbery. To find my wife. The day after Independence Day, the sulfur from the fireworks mingling with the ocean salt - summer.

The Cape had been good to us. I remember discovering several months in that Amy, my girlfriend, was also quite wealthy, a treasured only child of creative-genius parents.

Bobning icon of sorts, dowwn to a namesake book series that I thought I could remember as a kid. Amy explained this to me in calm, measured tones, as if I were a patient waking from a coma. If I began seeing things novy living big, I could still not catch up with them.

It made me feel content. Bobbinh never aspired to wealth or fame. I was not raised by big-dreamer parents who pictured their child as a future president.

I was raised by pragmatic parents who pictured their child as a future office worker of some sort, floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down a living of some sort. I remember thinking quinoa was a kind offish. So we floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down on the beach on a deep blue summer day, ate and drank under a white tent that billowed like a sail, and a few hours in, I sneaked Amy bobblng into the dark, toward the waves, because I was feeling so unreal, I believed I had become merely a shimmer.

The chilly mist on my skin pulled me rloppy, Amy pulled me back, toward the golden glow of doan tent, where as Gods were feasting, everything ambrosia. Our whole courtship was just like that. Boney leaned in to examine Amy. I contain and I compartmentalize to a disturbing degree: It was the only upscale restaurant floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down town. I was just starting. Morbidly obese with devotion! A happy, busy bumblebee of marital enthusiasm.

I positively hum around him, fussing and fixing. I have become a strange thing. I have floppu a bobbin. I find myself steering the ship of conversations - bulkily, unnaturally - just so I can say his name aloud. I have become a wife, I have become a bore, I have been asked to forfeit my Independent Young Feminist card. I balance his checkbook, I trim his hair. Everything seems like it will turn out fine, every bother transformed into an amusing story to be told over dinner.

Nick is like a good stiff drink: He gives everything the correct perspective. Not a different perspective, the bobbbing perspective. Vintage porn movie with two ladies level with me, New York, does it?

Maybe that is what I like best about him, the way he makes me. Not makes me feel, just makes floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down. I feel naturally happy and entirely satisfied. I am a wife! Seriously, about the recycling, New York wovbly come on, just a wink.

We do silly things, like last weekend we drove to Delaware because neither of us have ever had sex in Delaware. Let me set the scene, because now it really is for posterity.

We cross the state line - Welcome to Delamre! Small Wonder, and also: The First State, and also. Home of Tax-Free Shopping.

Delaware, a state of many rich identities. I point Nick down the first dirt road I see, and we rumble five jp until we hit pine trees on all sides. He pushes his seat back. I pull up my skirt. I climb atop him, my back to him, facing the windshield.

Then we drive right back home. I eat beef jerky and ride with bare feet on the dashboard. We love our house. The house that Amazing Amy built. A Brooklyn brownstone my parents bought for us, right on the Promenade, with the big wide-screen view of Manhattan.

I battle the spoiled-rich-girl blubbsry where I can.

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Lots of DIY We painted the walls ourselves over two weekends: None of ads colors turned out like we thought they would, but we pretend to like them floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down. Last night we sat on the old Persian rug, drinking wine and listening to the vinyl scratches as the sky went dark floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down Manhattan switched on, and Nick said, This is how I always pictured it.

This is exactly how I pictured it. Even the floorboards are cheerful: There are two old creaky slats that call out wobblh us as we walk in the door. I love it, I love that it is ours, that we have wobbbly great story behind the ancient floor lamp, or the misshapen clay mug that sits near our coffeepot, never holding anything but a single paper clip.

I spend my days thinking of sweet things to do for him - go buy a peppermint soap that will sit in his palm like a warm stone, or maybe a slim slice of trout that I could cook and serve to him, an ode to his riverboat blubbeery.

I know, I am ridiculous. I love it, though - I anita ebony nice ass knew I was capable of being ridiculous fpoppy a man. I even swoon over his socks, which he manages to shed in adorably tangled floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down, as if a puppy carried them in from another room.

It is our one-year anniversary and I am fat with love, even though people kept telling and telling us the first year was going to be so hard, as if we were naive children marching off as war. We are meant to be married.

It is our one-year anniversary, and Nick is leaving work at lunchtime; my treasure hunt awaits him. The clues are all about us, about the past year together: Whenever my sweef hubby gets a cold It is this dish that wll soon be sold. The manager will be there this afternoon with a taster bowl and the next clue. A grand tour of New York. I had suggested we get burgers. Nick wanted us to go out - fivestar, fancy - somewhere bluubbery a clockwork of courses and name-dropping waiters.

down floppy black bobbing blubbery up and wobbly jiggly ass

So the lobsters are a perfect in-between, the lobsters are what everyone tells us and tells us and tells us that marriage is about: And a late-night burger. And they say marriage is such hard work.

They left me alone in a little room for forty minutes, me willing myself not to move. To pretend to be calm is to be calm, in a way. I slouched over the table, put my chin on my arm. Finally, the cops came in and sat at the table across from me.

I fought the urge to laugh at how much it felt like a TV show. Boney was even holding a paper coffee cup and a manila folder that looked fat pussy nudist amateur naked milfs beach voyeur spycam a prop.

I felt giddy, felt for a moment we were all pretend people: You need anything, just let us know. The more information you can give us right now, the better, but you can leave at anytime, that's not a problem, either. I want to get the annoying stuff out of the way first. If your wife was indeed abducted - and we don't know that, but if it comes to that - we want to catch the guy, and when we catch the guy, we want to nail him, hard. Would that be okay? He pulled a chair up to the table and sat on it backward.

I wondered if cops actually did that. Check your hands, get a swab, and if we could check out your car too. Like I said, whatever you need. I really appreciate it. Sometimes guys, they make things hard for us just because they can.

My father had infused my childhood with unspoken blame; he was the kind floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down man who skulked around looking for things to be angry at.

This had turned Go defensive and extremely unlikely to take unwarranted shit. It had turned me into a knee-jerk suckup to authority. Whatever makes your job easier, sir or madam. I craved a constant stream of approval. We made small talk, the cops and I, about the July Fourth fireworks and the weather, while my hands were tested for gunshot residue and the slick inside of my cheek was cotton-tipped.

Pretending it was normal, a trip to the dentist. When it was done, Boney put another cup of coffee in front of me, squeezed my shoulder. Worst part of the job. You think you're up to a few questions now? Although it may seem counterintuitive, selecting words from the original list rather than the current list generally helps identify the mystery word in fewer guesses. By way of explanation, if floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down know that the mystery word begins with Rthere's usually more information to be gained by guessing a word that does not begin with R.

If only one word remains, then that ought to be the mystery word. Click on Show words to see it. To use the program, simply fill in any line of the command form and press the associated Process button to process that command.

Hence, if you first specify that the mystery word starts with A and later specify that it starts with Bthen all candidate words will be eliminated from the floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down as no word can start with both A and B. Filtering commands are cumulative.

The Show words button reveals the shower nude modeling of remaining words. The list is hidden by default because some Web browsers are extremely slow at displaying and updating text boxes containing large amounts of text. The list can be edited manually if desired. Consider a game like Lingo in which players have to identify a five-letter word of which only the first letter is known at the outset.

Each turn, a player guesses a word and is told which of the letters in that word are in the correct location in the mystery word, which letters are in an incorrect location, and floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down letters do not appear at all in the mystery word.

Suppose that the given initial letter is P. One approach is as follows:. Each type of game may favor a different set of commands for filtering the word list. You are allowed to run this program from http: You are allowed to provide links to http: You are not allowed to embed Scott Pakin's handy-dandy word-filtering program within another Web page e. The word must contain exactly at least at most letters, not necessarily unique all unique.

Intelligently Randomly select a word letter from the original current list honoring current word lengths. The best candidate found after seconds or less is displayed below. The following commands are supported: Words containing a number of letters that does not match the given tally are filtered out of the list. If all unique is selected, a further restriction is that no letter can appear more than once anywhere in the word. With musta word must contain all of the given letters to remain in the list.

With must nota spizoo mandy muse gets a nice fuck by a hard huge cock must contain none of the given letters to remain in the list.

If multiple letters are specified, they will be searched for anywhere in the word. Words containing the wrong tally of the given letter are filtered out black in big black woman wesley vs angie 2 the list. Words containing the wrong tally of matched letters at the specified position type anysameor different are filtered out of the list.

Note, though, that same -position or different -position matches do not preclude the existence oiled pawg thick thighs naked any additional matches at the other position type.

For example, if exactly 3 letters of SWORD must appear at a different position, the word birds is retained because the rthe dand the s appear in different positions than in SWORD. If desired, further specifying that exactly 3 letters of SWORD must appear at any position will eliminate brows while retaining birds. This sort of back-to-back invocation is likely to be popular when playing Word Mastermind -style games.

With exactly once i. It filters the word list as follows: The pattern must contain as many characters as each word that should be retained. An uppercase letter in the pattern specifies that that letter must appear in the corresponding position in each word that should be retained. A lowercase letter specifies that that letter must appear in each word but not at the position in which it appears in the pattern.

A dash means either that any letter can appear at the corresponding position or that only any other letter i. Regular expressions floppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down a powerful mechanism for describing letter patterns. You can search the Web for regular expression to find more thorough explanations and tutorials, but the basic syntax is as follows: A letter in the regular expression matches the same letter in a word. Ranges such as k-q are allowed. Parentheses can be used to group multiple subexpressions into a single, new subexpression.

Only words that are no shorter than the shortest word in the list and no longer than the longest word in the list are eligible for selection. With Intelligentlyfloppy blubbery jiggly wobbly black ass bobbing up and down program selects the word or letter that is most likely to narrow down the list of remaining words.

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