molly is a cunt, and she also doesn't have a penis

andy p, terrified, florida —

it's a train in vain for shania twain — !

my sister, who abandoned me in 2011 after my dreamy fantastical voyage from bournewood to st e to bournewood to st e — for four months — as i grew from the made in a laboratory mouse of the montreal jewish general to the ferocious lion with the bronze hair of a maitre'd — here i was, the magic beans had ascended the bean stalk, i wrote, and then i scribbled, and then i wrote, and then i ran for president — full webpage with donation function — and then, after 4 and 2+ 2, there i was: on the mat, beaten, like my penis meat, down to the spindly legs of a spider, choked on dick, and miss cleaver to the meat grinder: down and out on california avenue. and molly — nowhere to be found but in the arms of a pathetic boyfriend (nee husband, who she met at a bar — while i was hospitalized, over and over again — at a bar that has since closed to be replaced by a "modern irish pub") — is there anything more brookline than that? what happened to the old italian and ethnic eateries with the paintings of the olde country on the walls, on the table mats, and on my shoes, as i waltzed, from tony's villa to tony's place — they are all gone, as was my pate.

molly left me a long time ago. she used to be my favorite person in the world. my all-time favorite, more than the boys, she was the one. i often think that i would willingly have sex with my sister — fuck her silly, though not go down — and her hands are the fairest in all the kingdoms in brookline + newton. to fuck a sister — what an awfully big adventure! i miss her, but i will never speak to her again:

"it was like you died" —

well, said, well said, from a daughter of a father who went awol on my wedding night with him. to kill yourself on your wedding night with your only son — or daughter, if so — is to be cruel, to be untrue, and to be without wit, charm, and looks — all of which he had, as i recall. i would like this to be all about me, but my selves spill beyond the borders of my neurochemical microwave oven brain, pinky or not.

what does ones sister's penis look like? just ask her mother —

from the forest of beverly hills, troop allston v.2a —

andy pinky and the brain