New t-shirt
I go duffy on dem bitches
Joined: Mar 2001
Posts: 28,248
Likes: 0
From: Gonzales, Louisiana
We met on Thursday. I was counseling one of the undergraduate members of my fraternity when she and her friend walked by. Full of life and confidence, I asked her name and added her to my facebook. She asked for my number so I told her to text DWEEZEL to 41411; she saw the response and said "that's weird".
Connected with her on facebook and chatted about the neighborhoods in Philadelphia, specifically West Philadelphia. Invited her over to watch The Soprano's finale and she happily obliged. When I picked her up she was not the same as I remembered. Stunningly derelict, we walked and discussed life.
I sat on my chaise, she in my recliner devoid of emotion, watching blankly, tense. We sat silently; she was pensive, remembering the weekend, NYC, and home. I didn't know what to say to her. She was hungry, humbly asking for enough to get by, a peanut butter sandwich. She was trying to survive.
Walking to my car, she began her story. She is a starving artist in the truest sense. She is a writer. She wants to write comedy. I know she writes from the heart. She has more to tell, but we reach the car. We talk until arrive at her apartment and she thanks me for the night. I can't tell if she is relieved to be home or afraid to get out of the car. I wish that there was more I could do.
Connected with her on facebook and chatted about the neighborhoods in Philadelphia, specifically West Philadelphia. Invited her over to watch The Soprano's finale and she happily obliged. When I picked her up she was not the same as I remembered. Stunningly derelict, we walked and discussed life.
I sat on my chaise, she in my recliner devoid of emotion, watching blankly, tense. We sat silently; she was pensive, remembering the weekend, NYC, and home. I didn't know what to say to her. She was hungry, humbly asking for enough to get by, a peanut butter sandwich. She was trying to survive.
Walking to my car, she began her story. She is a starving artist in the truest sense. She is a writer. She wants to write comedy. I know she writes from the heart. She has more to tell, but we reach the car. We talk until arrive at her apartment and she thanks me for the night. I can't tell if she is relieved to be home or afraid to get out of the car. I wish that there was more I could do.
