“There’s not a single place open in Dallas where I can buy one,’ thinking, be easier to score smack than Primatine this time in the a.m., which is the kind of town Dallas is.”
“I am here to say that it’s possible to call your stroke-injured husband a cocksucker and a pricky sonofabitch, while he screams that you’re a lousy manager and lazy to boot. Sort of like the way I call God a mean motherfucker, when he’s being that way.” Tell it, Ashley Walker.
“It’s on the drive home that she hopes she will never feel like this again. Ever. Alone in the black drizzling night, all prayers abandoned, all passions put on a high, high shelf. Out of sight, out of reach.” Part 16 of Ashley Walker‘s memoir-in-progress, Gorked.
“Were you a puker, the licensed nurse would pat your forehead with a wet paper towel, put a white nylon arm around you, and escort you gently to the ambulence already waiting outside, its lights flashing for maximum effect.” Remember the days when horror movies literally made people ill? Ashley Walker does.
“Some sensation is returning in partial ways, but this fleshly deadness still means paper undies, catheters, salves: the whole catastrophe.” Ashley Walker is happy to assist.
“Wound up, me and the rat, driving over to White Rock Lake, a lake that’s supposedly chock full of dead drug dealers, and let it run off by the shoreline. Not exactly a Free-Willy moment, but the best choice I could think of.” Ashley Walker has since abandoned her catch-and-release policy.