She is the kind of girl who choose to be your friend only after she calculated the diameter of your spotlight. Her face told the tale of a happy, uncomplicated life. I could detect no tragedy there. How could those years suddenly seem insignificant & dream-like? The words that hurt more than any other knife in the world. I am all the things that I deserve. This simple prayer has been said for seven years, & so the words are robotically gibbered. What it left in its wake was a ugly, spin art mess. There's the long morning when you don't have to look at your watch. There's the smell of sun-warmed dog shit & damp earth. There's a child in muddied waterproofs whose tongue darts out around his ice-cream moustache. The man has stripes of facial hair streaked across his cheeks. The tip of his nose is raw & pinkish. The rest of his skin is fluorescent, chicken nugget white. Big crystal clear teardrops roll from his eyes & drop like aquatic bombs onto his jacket. Twenty five years worth of tears seemed to have been stored up & were now desperate for escape; out they came in a salty exodus.
It's Christmas Eve and time for an early Christmas present and what better than a Stacy post. She's been a bit scarce as of late, so it's about time we had some new pics of her.
Stacy Keibler at the MGM Grand Resort Hotel Casino earlier this year.
This is how we say goodbye to dying lovers & the grass. We say goodbye in coffee stains that never seem to go away. In the stale aftermath of settled cigarette smoke in lonely rooms, & on a park bench where an old man sits, remembering youth & glory & a kiss stolen by so many years it may never have happened. We say goodbye in every hour, every day, & every mile we have to walk alone.