30% off for lateness

I'm going to shove all of my sentences of the week(s) in this one post, since they're long delayed. There are some memorable ones, especially on Guam.

Starting with Lolita :

That old woman in black who sat down next to me on my bench, on my rack of joy (a nymphet was groping under me for a lost marble), and asked if I had a stomachache, the insolent hag. Ah, leave me alone in my pubescent park, in my mossy garden. Let them play around me forever. Never grow up.


That solemn pool of alien urine with a soggy, tawny cigarette butt disintegrating in it struck me as a crowing insult, and I wildly looked around for a weapon.


No temptations maddened me. The plump, glossy little Eskimo girls with their fish smell, hideous raven hair and guinea pig faces, evoked even less desire in me than Dr. Johnson had. Nymphets do not occur in polar regions.

From Angela's Ashes:

They multiply faster than Hindus. --in reference to fleas.

And lastly, I had an interesting borderline-assault conversation with a drunk person on Guam. There I was, with my 2 cousins, walking down a hotel and expensive shop-lined street in a village called Tumon, when I see 2 white young men sitting at a table. The reason I point out their skin color, mind you, is because the ratio of white people on Guam to Chamorros is, like, 1 to 2 bazillion. Whereas, here in Fort Fun, the ratio is more like 500 white people for every 1 non-white person (it's not that much of an exaggeration). So, naturally, I spot their whiteness, but I don't think anything of it. Until one of them grabs me and asks for a picture. I think they wanted a picture with the "locals," so I agreed (not that I had much of a choice with his whole arm dragging me to the camera).  I muttered to myself:


"We're not even locals."
"Really? Where are you from?" says the drunk man.
". . .Indiana"
"NO WAY. I'm from Florida! (well, you gotta be from somewhere, buddy) Where are you from?" says drunk man. So, first, he thinks it's a really cool that we're from two different places that aren't that remotely close together at all, and second, it's like he forgot what he already asked me. Redundant, much?

So, the drunk man's buddy takes his picture with us, with one of my cousins wailing: "BUT WHAT IS THIS FORRR?" in the background.
And then he holds out his hand, as if expecting me to shake it, which is exactly what I do. Then I walk away.

"WELL THAT WAS KINDA MEAN..."  he yells back at me, which of course it wasn't. He started toward me, to I don't know, confront me, but his buddy stopped him by saying, "whoaaa man." All I did was shake his hand, not try to instigate a fight. And for chrissake, I look like a little 12 year old brown girl. What a drunken crackpot he was.

I guess, since that's my first instance of being near a drunk person, I thought it was significant enough to put in my sentences of the week post. I later saw the drunk man's friend (who took the picture) sitting down, with his head in his hands, while his drunk friend went camera happy on all the tourists in a hotel. That's what you get, bud, for letting your friend get drunk.