In Which My Husband Takes Vicious, Belated Pleasure In General Sherman's March To The Sea
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Gross, Georgia. You're fucking gross. There was a methy, crunchy-faced man in the gas station, glaring fire at us. My husband let his testosterone rise, ready to strike like a viper, should the need arise, at the man he contemptuously described as "what all those Confederate punks looked like," while I snapped pictures of the massive slavery flag rising over the appliance parts shop next door.
In Which My Husband Takes Vicious, Belated Pleasure In General Sherman's March To The Sea
In Which My Husband Takes Vicious, Belated…
In Which My Husband Takes Vicious, Belated Pleasure In General Sherman's March To The Sea
Gross, Georgia. You're fucking gross. There was a methy, crunchy-faced man in the gas station, glaring fire at us. My husband let his testosterone rise, ready to strike like a viper, should the need arise, at the man he contemptuously described as "what all those Confederate punks looked like," while I snapped pictures of the massive slavery flag rising over the appliance parts shop next door.