I knew then what hell was. It was me. As I stared into the mirror my room began to spin. I got dressed quickly and tripped. I didn’t get up.

He sighs awkwardly and says, My dick’s ugly. She looks at it and says, Ideologically, I should be pleased, but her heart doesn’t believe it.

Her kiss is a warm drink on a cold day. I dream of golden butterflies, with a soundtrack of pan flute. I hate what you do to me, I tell her.

Finally, the judge asked: Why? And he said, I had “Dream Weaver” stuck in my head. A murmur went up in the courtroom. And the humming began.