The kitten club served bacon wrapped chicken wings. The bearded woman provided therapeutic prostate massage in her 1972 Polara. She would park they would find her. The kitten club would show up in odd places. Usually at opportune moments like a drinking glass to the wall. No one ever ate the chicken wings. They had become a knick knack decoration. Stuffed into a box and moved from place to place. The standing password for kitten club entry was "bandages". To the untrained eye it looked like a dumpy house on the corner. For the initiates it looked like their worst fear. Most couldn't awaken to the visual. Explains why the appetizers were never eaten. The mood at the kitten club was the constant avoidance as close as possible to compassion a human could get while not caring at all. The walls were made of pretension and distress. Bound together by misery. A misery company. Misery Incorporated.
It's not what you think it's what you believe. Patricia '96
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