My Cardboard Balcony

Gynecomastia by Belinda Roddie When you stumble on a chance word, name, or "scientific" term, you often fight giggles in the back of your tickling throat. Like Morton's toe. Who's Morton? What's wrong with his toe? Did he bang it too many times on his iron stove while trying to brew up a pot of Earl Gray? And Doll Tearsheet. Obviously, a prostitute name. That's something that's transcended even Shakespeare (My friend likes Violet Crayon). Skeuomorphia is quite an issue in today's society. Polyorchids are somewhat rarer. A brannock device is what you see while shopping, and a fruit machine doesn't give you fruit. Paresthesia happens when you sleep on your foot the wrong way, though at least it's not a bad case of obdormation. But petrichor is one of my favorite aromas, tingling on my philtrum. And the title of this little spiel? Figure it out in a faded dictionary or your flickering tablet and you may raise an eyebro

"This is the pits." "Relax, Andrew," I murmured. "Just another hour and then we can head home." "I don't know why we have to do this. I mean, just because Daniel told us to doesn't mean - " "I know, but just...do this for a friend, okay?" I readjusted my binoculars as Andrew kept his crouched position behind the juniper. Sarah was leaving the restaurant soon. With who, we didn't know yet.