Irrational fear of heights. Mile high club member, because she lived in Seattle for a year, and it happened just as she was leaving, and yes, she had wanted it to. Of course she was asking for it.
Transsexual escorts are a dime a dozen in the almost west coast of a democratic America. (This is the future, even if it doesn't want me to tell you about it. Inevitability is a bitch like that, right? Right. [Write])
My problem with "The Postal Service" is that the songs go fucking nowhere, and they end five seconds before or after you're bored and about to hit the 'next' button anyway. What a mess. That isn't genius, by the way. It's bad sex.
I don't know if she still fears heights. Probably not: she dated a lot of tall men for a while, way back when, in Kentucky.
Her name? I can't fucking remember it. Not shadow, not ella. Something old, like Ella. Grace! her name was Grace. Fitting, actually, with the way she moved, and not just her hips, though: those too.
"All my boyfriends are convinced I'm going to go back to my ex," She told me once, over coffee. "They all hate you, though! You've been around for ever." And I smile and I nod and I continue. "They tell me I always talk about them so nostalgically. But that's just how I am. It doesn't mean I *still* love those guys, it doesn't lessen what I feel for *them*, *now* but they don't see it. To them it's doomed.
"And so here I am!" She waves her hands around, "Imitating crazy for myself in a late night diner. And ya know? I don't really want to talk to myself anymore." She smiles into the ashtray, putting out her smoking cigarette filter.
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